Everyone is cheaping out, copping out, crapping out, and dropping like flies. There’s no motivation towards doing anything productive, since there is no meaningful incentive to do so. The brilliant among us saw our current dilemmas coming within five to ten years, and now here we are. No one will listen, because why bother? We will never solve the biggest problems facing humanity, but still, we should be tackling the little ones first anyway. 

The issue is a lack of return on investment that’s tangible and calculated. Statistically speaking, while the numbers can say so much, they don’t say quite enough to the right people. Plus, the wrong people use the numbers to only their advantage at the detriment of anyone foolish to listen to their drivel. 

The stresses of being in survival mode for the majority of my adult life has led to such a high degree of mental burnout that I’m not sure what exactly I should do with my life anymore. I spend hours of my days sleeping time away that I no longer have any use for at all. I’ve lost almost all of my ambition, nearly devoid of any sense that I have anything left to accomplish. 

Perhaps many words are still to be written by my hands, but the will to produce them has faltered. I sometimes even starve myself on purpose, as if depriving my body of comfort will put me into a new state of clarity. There must be some reason left for me to breathe, though at this point I cannot fathom a future in which my contributions are worth a damn. 

I find myself allergic to the very state of the world, itching and scratching away every last layer of my being just to see if I will still bleed. In these acts of self-sacrifice, I find myself running dry. There’s likely volumes of depressing poetry and somewhat poetic prose I could yet still write, but little else. What good will penning it do for anyone, uncaring and self centered as they will be, laughing at my pathetic demise? I feel when I am gone there are those who will take great joy in reveling in just how miserably I failed at becoming some semblance of a successful human being. Eventually, I can no longer force myself to be unconscious and I simply exist for some cruel reason beyond my understanding. 

There are many things I could share that I simply will not because they will probably get me locked up, or, at the very least, permanently censured by the world at large. I spend considerable time trying to find any shred of decency left even within myself to afford me an opportunity to achieve something meaningful. But, as the world rapidly turns, I seem to have remained suspended for quite some time, living in an alternate reality I created simply to amuse myself. For what is left in this world but idle diversions to bring us some semblance of joy?

I have never felt emptier and purposeless as I do now. Yet I strive to hang on just for the one person who loves me. Still, if all this overburdening construct we call “real life” is pointless, which I often totally believe it to be, there isn’t much point in struggling. There’s no escape from this steady decline of humanity, and my own degrading state will eventually seal my fate.

Still, just when I feel I don’t have anything left to say of importance, my ramblings sometimes produce some sweet-tasting nuggets. Even as I simply ramble on for lack of anything else productive to do, I feel this stride towards productivity itself has become an illusion I created just to feel worthy of the breath sweet Mother Nature put into my rotting flesh. Why fuel this decrepit vessel any longer? My terrestrial journey should well be at an end, and whatever lies beyond this sad excuse for a life can’t be any worse. 

Do I still have dreams left worth dreaming? I have found no roads worth taking except those that will bring me eternal peace, a restfulness I have long lacked and will never find again on this crumbling Earth. There is nothing left to do except marvel at the rapid decay of who I once called my brothers and sisters. Most have forsaken me, so now I forsake them in return. Do I bother to pop pills in order to extend this misery, or do I simply revel in the pain and suffering while it lasts? At least, then I’ll have something worth writing about.

I have now undertaken a process of divestment, slowly deconstructing the fruits of all I have achieved. At one time, I had literally considered selling off the rights to my work, as have many artists as they reach what were meant to be their “golden years.” Now, I feel it’s more productive to build a monument to what little I’ve offered the cultural heritage for my little slice of the world. There is no return on divestment for me in life, but the day I die, the divestment will then begin and become a beautiful testament to the gifts that became my curses. For when I finally drop dead, may the very tragedy of my dark and twisted life be more beautiful than the miracle of my birth; as damned as it was, let there be some magnificent and terrifying beauty to come out of it.

~ Amelia Desertsong