Waiting for the end of the world

I´m in one of those dreadful states where I absolutely feel the need to do something but unfortunately can´t. I need to write my essays, but I can´t think and nothing makes sense to me. I don´t even know anymore what I wanted to write. If I can´t write my essays, at least I should look for a new topic for my thesis. But the thought alone fills me with dread. I feel like this time things have really snapped out of my control. There were plenty of close calls over the last few years, but this time failure might be unavoidable. And here I sit, like the rabbit before the snake, letting the seconds tick away and turn into days.

In a way I´m waiting, or even hoping, for some kind of apocalypse. Maybe this is the reason why I don´t really try to ward off failure. I´m more or less inviting it in. Huh. If this was a movie, some real disaster would happen. Like someone who matters to me dying in a stupid, random, meaningless accident. In a way, I´m scared that fate (something I don´t even believe in) will punish me for hoping for the big crash.

I´ve always had a thing for apocalyptic scenarios. If we were told that tomorrow this time a meteor will smash us all to dust, I think I´d feel like finally my great day has come. The national holiday of everyone for who this life was always just a waiting room and never a home. I see all those people who love this life running around like frantic ants, pleading with a non-existent god, while I walk around serenely, taking in the crying and killing and plundering with some kind of calm excitement. Not because I hate mankind or anything. The scared people are really just decoration.

I feel like I´ve lived like that all my life. Starting to live, or starting anything at all, is not worth the effort. Soon everything will be turned over completely/end/explode anyway. In some way or the other I have always believed this. Somehow I always felt the need to be prepared. I don´t feel safe if I´m not ready to die. Being happy scares me. Even feeling safe scares me.

I´m so incredibly empty. I don´t feel empty. There really is nothing inside.  I´m not suffering. And yet somehow I appear to be in agony. It´s like crying without tears. Suffering without pain. I cannot express myself. Being empty inside, I have nothing to express, and the only way to express nothing is by shutting the fuck up. And yet I waffle on and try to make myself understood, with expressions that necessarily dramatize my so-called misery. Worst of all, they might cause people to respond with emotions I cannot reciprocate. In fact, I cannot even take them seriously. So above everything else, I´m a lying cunt as well.

Have I ever told you about the voices? Voices I have been talking to in my head when I was younger, like other people pray or have imaginary conversations with real or fantasized partners. The Voices were some kind of spiritual entity who, yes, talked only to me. They were always a collective of some sort. I built a mythology around them. It was them who warned me of dangerous days, who told me which actions to commit and which to avoid, and be it putting both my feet on each step of the stairs and other pointless OCDish activities.

So much for “talked to them”. I don´t believe in the mythology anymore, but they still talk to me. Or rather:  They´ve started again about a year ago, preferably when I have to make choices. “Take this bottle of water or your girlfriend dies.” – “Fuck you, I know you´re not real, but okay, I will. Better not to take no chances.” – “Well, maybe you should take the other bottle! Maybe that voice was trying to misguide you!” – “No, take the first bottle!” – Me, pretty pissed off: “Well, which one, for fuck´s sake?” Trust me, sometimes I end up taking both even if I only need one.

The thing is: I just fear that by saying “fuck it, I don´t believe in them” I´m challenging fate. Just like by saying that I don´t believe in fate.  And I realize that this first sentence is mistaken anyway: I do believe in them either way. What I mean is that I can´t just say: “Fuck it, I don´t believe them. I don´t believe in what they say.”

I just wonder who the hell The Voices are. I mean – why exactly are they having so much fun terrorizing me with worst-case scenarios and then demanding contradictory actions from me in order to prevent them from coming true? It´s pure sadism. Or utter confusion. Well, I guess the confusion is mine. I do sense some cold triumph coming from them. But sometimes I feel an urge to defend the poor voices, the only companions that have always and ever remained true to me. Thinking of them as evil makes me feel a mixture of pity and heartbreak, like a child looking at a broken toy. Oh, and a wish to make it alright again. Because I feel like they have to be very sad now because I don´t reciprocate their love.

All these feelings I described in the paragraph above are actually just fragments and traces of feelings. Hollow shadows, ghosts, little voices and outcries in my head. I´m never really sure if I´m not just imagining it all. Making it up to cover up the emptiness. It doesn´t affect me deeply; it´s rather like I´m completely distracted for a moment, and then afterwards it´s irrelevant. Like it never happened. Like my thoughts had just wandered.

It is absurd, isn´t it? How I seem to believe that my only hope for redemption lies in expressing myself accurately and being heard by the right people, whoever and where ever they may be, and yet at the same time I believe that the only way to accurately express myself is falling silent forever and losing all awareness of myself. Which reminds me of the paradox of narcissistic blogs. To end a dramatic blog entry quite succinctly.





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