Nothing works

I sometimes think about being gone. But sometimes I think it’s not that I want to be gone. I’d like everything to just stop. For a while. Just have everything but me stop.

I can’t seem to find the reason to continue.

We are speeding toward the end and I often regret bringing a child into the world just for them to have to suffer in this garbage fucking world.

I love my kid. I couldn’t live without them. But that’s because I’m selfish.

I look around and think the world wants me to give up.

And I find its argument convincing.

The Day After 1895 #artbots #munch
https://botfrens.com/collections/90/contents/25122

Realistically, no one needs anyone. We’re all replaceable.

Nothing leads to joy.

I don’t have anything left.

Aris Moore

I’m in crisis.

What’s the point?

Honestly can’t think of a good reason to keep living except crippling fear of oblivion.

And, again, this isn’t some sort of temporary bad mood or angst speaking. This is someone who has lived five decades, weighing the happy times and the sad times, the accomplishments and the failures, etc.

I guess it’s probably for the best that I’m not really all that valuable. No one is.

I wonder sometimes if we aren’t all just faking what we mean to each other. Is it cynical to believe we are all living and acting our way through life? That love isn’t just performance? We read stories. We watch stories. We reenact stories.

I used to think our lives meant something and mattered in that we formed relationships and meant something to one another.

I’m at an age now where people I know and love are dying around me. They die, and it hits me, and I am affected by it.

For a time.

And then I keep moving.

I used to be on Twitter. I am an alt account for a melancholy middle-aged man, and I exist as a place for that man to say things he can’t say to family, friends, acquaintances, etc.

This is not a cry for help.