(Rock Bottom — A Melancholia of the Drunk; Series of Monologues, Letters and Rants, by Phill Ibsen)
I wonder whether all these will ever end. Fuck my existence and the reason why I live for it. Fuck all the madness. I despise it. I hate it when you make me smile and you convince me to refrain from the disease of hopelessness. You think it is easy to be hopeful just because you have something to fall back on – a family to give you home, friends to pet you and haters to spread your gospel. I ain’t got any of that and it ain’t your fault. You and I have different journeys, with crazy experiences, and mine are the ones, which lead me to the grave each passing moment.….But I hold on…. I revel over the fact that you do not know me. You do not know my story even a fraction of it. Your privileges alone have rendered me obsolete in your world. How can I be free, when to live is to exist in your image?
I am tired of losing grip over my identity.
I am always here when the day breaks. I stare at the clouds swing their legs for the sun to penetrate. It finds me there, staring, as if I am watching some hardcore porn.
When its dusk, it is all the same. I watch the sky cover her nudeness.
Same thing every day, yet with all her rudeness it does not pause for a moment to inquire whether I want a piece of the show. It does not give a shit about me. No one does. As soon as you walk out of the door, no one gives a shit, except your pretentious self-loathing shit.
I need a break from this life, from this desperate world in need of absolution. I need to stop. It hurts to be me. I need a break. I need to be peaceful even just for a minute, or for the rest of my lustful life.
I do not think anyone deserves to die like this. I think everyone deserves to die at some point, but not in a horrible way possible. I do not want to be a murderer; I do not want to add it on my CV. Is that even a crime, taking your own life?
If charged with attempted murder, how many years will I do in jail?
When found guilty, and my corpse is to be released on bail, who will pay that bail? I am weighing options.
If I try to end this life and fail, I will be on the stand, my words against myself. What will I tell myself? The part of me that wanted to veer off will say, “That chicken heart piece of shit was a weakling.”
Better yet, my corpse might be buried in a jail grave, where I would meet the ghosts of inmates who hanged themselves in their cells, because their weak asses could not live through an aftermath of gang rape.
Forgive my words, I get irrational when agitated, but never out of control.
Tell me dear friend, How do you survive through such? Where do you run? Whom do you talk to?
How can you ease a suicidal mind from breaking? If I push myself over the edge, I will be a fucking murderer. DO NOT CALL ME THAT!
No formula.No manual.I am tired. I am fucked. Everyone deserves a break.
Some days are better. Some days are twice as much tougher. We all have our moments. We all choose our moments, when to be weak.
We cannot keep our end of the bargain every day. Such times, my mind prunes for a psychotic breakdown. I am afraid that this might be it. This is it. I am tired. I am fucked. I need me some rest. Goddamn god, I need a fucking break, through.
It is all quiet. Something is happening behind my back the world must be conspiring against me.
It’s hard being a man in a woman’s World. No manual.No formula. I am fucked.
As Written by Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.
