I am pain. I don’t fucking care what you think well I do now because I write this and writing is communication. But this goes to the place of nowhere that is the internet. I suffer therefore I am. I hate the very concept of existence infinitely much because every day I wake up with nerve pain.
A small spot in my mouth. Maddening. Water drop torture. I am tortured and I pay for it. I do bullshit jobs to make the money to waste on fucking doctors who smile at me through their perfect teeth, eat it up boy, and tell me off, yes they tell me to ‘google it’, or my father who used to be a doctor told me jokingly to ‘amp utate my head’ and that man is always right – writing this up only makes him more fucking right.
Am I weak? No, I am as tough as they come. I am not suicide, I explore the infinite hatred of being locked in consistent pain. Life is joyless and hopeless, just raw existence and existence is what? Registration of my nociceptors. Registration of pain. In my brain there is a permanent voice yelling that the house is on fire and I have to get out of there but guess what I AM the motherfucking house.
Yet I chose the path creative destruction. I will be around for decades more if I’m not hit by lightning. Decades of pain and infinite hatred addressed at existence itself. And I am not alone. There is so much anger in society. In my case the pain is ‘physical’, teeth were pulled out with the promise that pain would subside but it stays, stays, lingers on and affects everything that happens during my waking hours and during my dreams.
There is no escape. There is no medication. You have to ‘deal with it’ well guess what I have been dealing with it for decades. It has destroyed me, see, here, my very diction sounds like a lobotomized Holden Caulfield, it’s all trickery not probing at the dangerous undercurrent it’s layering in signals and eliciting what? Compassion, a tap on the back, but that is so fucking naive. Pain is loneliness, deep, Nietzschean loneliness. It paints everything pitch black. The experience of eating, loving, laughing, running, fucking, the whole gamut of what the human organism can feel is hijacked, meaning erodes because the only thing that I observe when I sit down in mindfulness and to breathing exercises is that pain. Observe that thought and let it flow, like a fucking little twit twat bird flying in and out of its cage. That bird doesn’t fly, brother Gautama, that bird craps all over my dearest thoughts, maiming my thinking in real time. That ain’t a bird I want to keep watching but it’s the only one that shows up.
Decades more to go. Decades in which ’they’ will cure Alzheimer’s, cancer, HIV, hell senescence itself, and as those years go by my pain will last as a testament of human fragility. Nobody cares, that is why it is so safe for me to write these imbecile words (I know this, I know my intellectual capacities have been decimated because of that fucking pain), it is relatively safe for me to puke verbally into my laptop. I don’t want to use a condom I’m hardly going to impregnate anyone let alone spread this disease of precise infinite hatred towards the very concept of existence itself.
Yet I live. Second after second, all there is is pain, emanating from a small spot in my upper jaw, not unlike the Cartesian pineal gland that was supposed to be the source of self-sure self-conscious. Just a tiny aberration of nerve endings, should be an easy fix but it is structural. Eternal. I believe in eternity because I suffer from this fucking, fucking, fucking pain. Every day I am standing in front of a firing squad but the guns are inside me and I cannot die, they keep shooting and my nervous system keeps yelling, DANGER! and nobody cares. It is so incredibly lonely, so sad, so sad.
A typical response to such a rant would be ‘action’. DO something, Can’t they…? Fuck you. I’ve tried everything already. THIS IS ME NOW. And writing is the only little thing, the only little thing I have. In those in-between hours where the pain is briefly away (see, I lied about her permanence, fucking me) there is everything. The joy of winding sentences, winding, going home. Because I cannot go home, remember my house is on fire according to my nerves