



For every star in heaven
There’s a sad soul here today.
– Queen, Long Away.
…
The end is here at last.
I know it’s the end because I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care who my actions will hurt. After all, they don’t care about me.
I heard it and knew it the other day “fuck her.” I’m an epileptic. He meant he didn’t want anyone to come home and look after me.
He meant if I fell and broke my neck, he didn’t care.
He didn’t care if I died.
Mother just sat there quietly, as always.
Sister. She lit the flame. She never said sorry.
I’m sorry to the online friends I have. The people I loved who never knew me. Rami. Michael. Chris. I hope we meet some day.
But this sad soul is joining the stars. My only friend. The end.
I ran until my legs could barely hold me up.
I ran until I could feel nothing but jelly anymore,
If that makes sense.
I ran unti I had could no more longer breathe.
I ran until I tripped and could run no longer.
The chase was over.

When is an Impossible Dream a Dead Dream
I spent a good portion of this evening typing up my entry for the Impossible Dream collaboration. I will eventually post it, if only because I made the effort to write it up on Cheetah Corona (my Corona electric typewriter), to I feel I shouldn’t waste it. A lot of ideas of mine get abandoned and wasted, which brings me to what inspired me to write this.
While it is nice to vent my feelings on all that seems impossible to achieve in my life as an artist and as a person, I also found myself excavating some unpleasant thoughts that I try to ignore a lot of the time.
It was not a pleasant excavation.
The biggest discovery? As a creator (writer, artist,delusional buffoon, whatever you would like to call me), I feel my window of opportunity is, at best, nothing but a tiny crack lit by sunlight on occasion. I’m nearing 40, I have little money, no connections to open any doors in life, and my struggles with mental illness and – more recently – epilepsy mean even finishing a project is difficult. Depression tells me I can’t do it, that no one will like it, why bother because I am useless. Anxiety is the sane tune played in Paralysing Fear of Mockery. Epilepsy is often triggered by stress, which all of the above bring on.
The best I can often manage are a few mediocre drawings of people I admire and abstract vent pieces. Writing happens in dribs and drabs. Most of it remains hidden.
I create so little of value, and I feel my dreams are dying along with whatever skill I may have posessed once. But I have nothing to move on to. I already know ordinary jobs are like being trapped in a cage to me, a cage that drives me slowly mad. No matter how good my coworkers and boss are, it feels the same.
I’m stuck here in a hole I dug for myself. I often ask what will happen to my work after I die. And the truth, save the few that are better than average, is they’ll be heading to a landfill one day. And that will be when I am truly dead.
I’m having a tough time with everything right now. My health problems have been numerous, I made a suicide attempt in the summer (which She Who Shall Not Be Named claimed I faked, then just huffed when I posted proof of my hospital admission which explicitly stated I had attempted suicide. And she still claims I’m a liar. Fucking christ) and I’m still using drugs.
In all honesty, they do make my life more bearable, I can do things on them and not feel so useless. Presses are the exception – I had 100 a week or so back, and they were gone after a few days and I couldn’t figure out how the hell they all disappeared…until I realised I blacked out and probably took the lot. Thank god these didn’t have fentynal in. I fell out with that plug anyway, the other guys charge more, but it’s the real stuff and that’s important in an age where fentynal is goddamn everywhere.
I know they are no good for me. But then what future do I have that’s worth fighting for here? I accept I’m a loser. I don’t accept I’m a bad person, as some people like to claim. I’ve done and said regrettable things, I own that completely.
I find myself thinking about death a lot again. I have no money for presents. I’m useless.
I’m writing this because my family just ignores me these days. I’m a junkie they tolerate. I do appreciate their frustration and anger about it, and my mum doesn’t have to provide me with housing. I’m not ungrateful, but it hurts that she can hear me cry at times and says nothing.