Pitch

Cannot see, cannot know, cannot feel, no thought, no emotion, no time. What passes? Am I? Too much too soon too fast too good too bad.

Tried to be well, tried to be right. Tried to be more, tried to be all. And with every trial I resent myself more. Tonight, there is no person on earth I can say I like. Tonight, my faith in possibility, my hope for transcendence is gone. Tonight, I cannot respect my self, cannot respect my people, cannot respect my species, and am not impressed with existence. Insignificance permeates my core and renders me paralysed with revulsion at the world. My world. For my world is not your world, and there is no one in it.

Perfection is an illusion, and strife for the high and the good, for the beautiful and the right, for meaning and purpose, is a mockery and a handicap.

This is truth to me, absolute and immutable, as the world stands, and as I stand in who I am and what I am. But there is nothing like failure to draw the thoughts out from the dark recesses of the mind, where they are hidden lest they devour the will and the heart for life. And there is no failure like the failure to satisfy oneself. The disappointment, the frustration, the utter hate for one's incompetence, and the bitter contempt at the surrender of one's ideals, are just the beginning. And there is no hypocrisy greater than the need for self-satisfaction in refuting the ways and lives of the self.

Twisted and uneasy my mind continues to refuse me contentment, and as if conspiring with it, the world veils its beauty and its joys from me, and all that is left in me is fear of life and death in equal measure, and a terror beyond comprehension of an insanity that is all too real in the abysses of my dark hours.