Currently, my health trajectory is fatal.

Oh sure, it won’t happen all at once. That’s the beauty of it. My ship of health is sinking so very slowly that it’s barely perceptible. It could not be easier for me to convince myself that everything is okay.

And I won’t have to do anything overtly stupid, either. All I have to do is continue on my current course of healthy-ish eating and unhealthy almost completely sedentary life and I will slowly fall apart until I die way too young without even having lived yet.

So ya know. At least I have a plan.

The dark truth is that death does not frighten me. I know it should, but it doesn’t. The idea that I am going to die young should scare the crap out of me and motivate me to change my life like nothing else could.

Heck, if not for me, then I should at least care enough to take care of myself so that my friends and family don’t have to go through my dying young while they are helpless to do anything but watch me destroy myself in slow motion.

But when I contemplate my own death, I feel nothing. Less than nothing. A null set. The interstellar void. Hard vacuum.

Actually that’s not entirely true. I do feel something : relief.

Death actually sounds kinda good to me. Not enough for me to cause it myself – I am not suicidal per se.

But enough for me not to feel strongly motivated to avoid it, either.

And I suppose that in a way, that’s kind of the same thing. Only milder.

I mean, I no longer want to step into traffic, but if an out of control driver was barreling toward me at top speed, I might not get out of the way.

Harsh but true.

And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if it can be fixed. My mind keeps trying to invent some kind of escape scenario where I flee this burning building before it crashes down around my head, but that’s kind of impossible when the building is your body.

So it’s repair, or succumb.

And obviously, my answer “should” be repair. That would be the sane response.

But I am not sane. I am crazy. And my crazy ass looks at all the work that fixing myself would take and all the changes that would be involved and how alien a new, healthy life would be and despairs.

So it chooses succumb.

Because dying seems a heck of a lot easier.

It would be different if I didn’t feel so abandoned and alone all the time. I have people who love and support me, and I am grateful for that, but I don’t feel it.

Emotionally, I am still that same kid who laid down in a snowbank and willed himself to die. I’m still there. Alone, forgotten, abandoned, left to die in the dark cold void.

Hell, not even left to die. Just…. left.

They didn’t care what happened to me after that.

And I don’t know how to deal with that.

More after the break.

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I’m getting sick of this

God, being sick sucks.

I’ve used up my ready supply of patience and forbearance and now I just want my god damned energy back. I can’t stay awake for more than an hour and a half, two hours tops, and it’s just that there’s so much to do, and I’m tired of sleeping.

And worse than that is the overall feeling of malaise. I feel like I am wilting under the heat of a dark star. Like some form of vampire is draining me with sensual slowness. Like the furnace of my life force is guttering.

Oh well, it was never very hot anyhow.

Right now, my challenge is to get myself to eat. I know I should eat, I know I need to eat, but right now I am at Appetite Level Zero. Food seems like something alien to me about which I have fond memories to which I can no longer relate.

Well, at least the verbal flourishes are on point.

Maybe I should take a crack at being a poet. Seems like a sweet gig for someone as talented and prolific as me. Write a hundred words with lots of line breaks about how I am feeling at that moment, and voila, fame.

Of a sort. A very limited sort. And there’s no money in it, either.

So I would have to be doing it for entirely personal reasons. Reasons of self-expression. Often, when I am trying to put my thoughts and feelings into this little blog o’mine,I fee like I am fumbling towards poetry of a sort.

Poetry, imagistic prose, pretentious symbolism…. it’s a continuum.

I’ve always thought Bukowski had a sweet gig. All he had to do was write tiny little poems and he got to be world famous in his lifetime.

Probably didn’t get rich off it, but still, he is a known poet.

Where was I? Food. Right.

It is so tempting to just skip supper. To hell with it. Save my appetite for when I have my snack around 1 am. I will probably be hungry by then.

But of course, it ain’t that simple. For me, missing meals can have long term repercussions that last for days.

So i have got to eat, even though I don’t feel like it. Maybe I can get some of my leftover pizza down, plus some ice water.

We’re out of fruit, too, which doesn’t make things easier. Generally speaking, when I need to jump-start my appetite, the best thing for it is a nice red juicy apple.

They almost always look good to me. And often once I actually start eating, my appetite comes back, which is a weirdly backwards way for things to work.

“Have something to eat!”
“No thanks, I’m not hungry. “
“Why aren’t you hungry?”
“Because I haven’t had anything to eat!”

In conclusion, human bodies are dumb.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.