Into the void...
“That night she sat for hours, too numb even to drink, teaching herself to breathe in a vacuum. For this, oh God, was the void. There was nobody who could help her. Nobody in the world. They were all on something, mad, possible enemies, dead.”
-Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
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2002-12-19
4:13 p.m.
I’m beginning to become extremely concerned about the drastic decrease in cognitive functioning that I’ve experienced over the past several years. It seems that every single day brings me one day closer to becoming too dumb to remember how to breathe. Even though I still attest to the fact that I’m smarter than most people, the fact remains that my brain is dying a bit more with every single day.
When I was in high school, I had serious problems with the fact that no one seemed capable of remembering things the way I could remember them. Every single thing that was said or done or even inferred around me became irrevocably ensconced in the mire of my still flexible and always readily aware brain. Of course, even then, it worried me because I KNEW it wasn’t something that could last. A person can’t live with the ability to remember detail for detail every single occurrence over the course of their life.
It’s just not healthy.
And this fails to mention the fact that memories have always caused me trouble. For as far back as my bruised and bleeding brain can recall, I’ve worried that the longer I lived, the less I’d be able to handle the reality of life. There’s far too much to it, and it literally makes me crazy. If I’m not thinking about life and death, I’m thinking about the fact that I hate everyone. If I’m not thinking about any of those things, I’m thinking quite literally about absolutely nothing because my brain is so suffocated by drugs that it’s become incapable of doing anything.
I can’t do anything.
My brain hurts every time I try to spend just a moment or two thinking. Everything hurts. Regardless of what I’m thinking about, it makes me hurt. The thought of work makes me hurt. The thought of sleep makes me hurt. The thought of relaxing and reading or writing makes me hurt. The thought of trying to continue leading a normal life makes me feel like I’m going to explode.
I can’t do it.
I can’t even remember what I’ve written two words before what I’m writing. I can’t remember why I started writing, and I can’t remember where I planned to go with it. I can’t remember if that’s the way I usually write or not. All I know is that I feel like shit. I feel like absolute SHIT.
And it’s too fucking hot in here.
Everything hurts. I feel like I’m going to pass out. It’s getting too close to Christmas, and that makes me feel sick to my stomach. I’m getting too old and that makes me sick. I’m getting too bitter and too disgusted and too frustrated with everything. I can only barely tolerate myself.
And I’m getting dumber just to make everything worse.
