I wish I was like you,
I wish I had it all mapped out,
I wish I was in more complete understanding of myself and my role within this wondrous world, and by that I mean I wish I was as stupid as you.
I wish I didn't question everything and just go with it.
I wish I was so small in my understanding that I could build a model of this world, the universe and through my own comprehension, my own analysis, figure it all out.
And the point comes when I realize that there is this dirty, filthy rapist in my mind, in my world, my society, my work that wishes to destroy, that wants to be unleashed, to fuck up their systems, tear down their trees, to corrupt those tiny boys and girls.
And I say rapist because people dont like that being said.
They don't mind it being done—they just mind it being said.
I want to despoil, to take away the innocence of, because innocence disgusts me. But it's all grotesque banality.
The empty self, this half being and every day another crack forms, another splinter breaks away and hope is gone and without feeling.
I want something in a wrapper, something in new silk panties, some old crusty piece of meat, something with the authority of a badge, or an instructional print out.
I want it all to corrupt it, I want to revenge myself upon it. To kick away the flimsy papers and cover them with dirt. That's the most that I can expect, to sully their receipts, to crumble their registration forms. I wish I was just like you and conclude that I must be of huge importance, that I'm the center of the world: my pockets are full of change, and through this change I can enact change. I wish I could care about all that lipstick, those things, you know those things, those things you care about and those cars and people, all that tripe. On what scale do you measure the worth of these people?
And we are taught that money is real value and a moral code and a combination of the two and as the days pass I learn tricks and deceit and the instinct to grab it when it comes. And now look all of this, who's standing, who's yelling, who's talking about you, it's me! I'm the one after all, and am I important, or am I just a messenger for you? I don't know, I don't give a fuck. I'm yelling and nothing I'm saying hasn't been said before.
I see empty eyes, stuffing his fat face with chips or fat, dripping grease, filling his face with money or moral code, and he is without sense. Why the fuck should I acknowledge you, you hold open that door for me and step out of my way, I didn't ask for this, I didn't ask to have to acknowledge you. Now I sit and some fuck tells me not to sit, not to loiter and I have to acknowledge this prick as well.
The only moment of truth is the tenth of a second after the money shot is delivered, in that fraction there is reality. In that singular point, all the lies that money and desperation build are revealed and all that's left is truth. My memory lapses and it's hard to tell or care anymore. I don't know if it's out of apathy or boredom. This weight is the weight of pointlessness and it drags me down. I've never been so happy, I say to myself and I repeat it to pretend that I remember now how I felt when I said it, but I remember nothing but the words. He likes it and I didn't. I like it but he doesn't. I've realized that I'm not really one person, and neither of us gives a fuck, neither of us is really whole or worth a damn.