...

One day a couple months ago I called the hospital. The stuff I said on the phone had them book me for the very next day. Stuff about blackouts, spasms, and brain fog... When I got there I followed a finger with my eyes and they tapped my knee then booked me with a psychiatrist. Said it might be some dissociation thing. Anyways, I got an appointment for the very next week. I forgot it. I mixed up my Fridays.

I tried to reschedule a couple months later. The first opening they had was with a new psych -- two and a half months later. There's bumps that showed up on some of my fingers. On my left middle finger it's like they spread around in a cluster of tiny hard bumps. I hope there isn't bumps in my brain. What do I do by that point? I can't afford a brain scan. I'm a cleaner...

I'm not going to bother making an ethical argument for why I should be alive. I like being alive. I hope people randomly give me enough money to quit my job. Some winning lottery ticket, or a billion bucks thrown into one of my stocks... Whatever it is I hope I get to live comfortable until I die. I'm not going to be very useful for many things. I might have some wisdom to offer here and there.

By this point my pathology is screaming so loud I can hardly hear myself. The "Please fucking kill me." and "I'm facing a fate worse than death." of it all is drowning out the absurdity that's driving why I'm still here to begin with. If you can parse that absurdity, the me within all this noise, then you might claim the cosmos my friend. Between the lines there is a strong soul.

I'm here writing this instead of laying on the floor staring at the impasto of my bedroom wall. The reason for that is sitting in the same cabinet where the afterlife is; where the gods are, where ghosts roam, and where sci-fi discoveries are yet to be made. The place where we take for granted a sentence like "I had a streak of a billion happy years."

In that realm I randomly killed Samsara, woke up as a goddess, forgave Jesus Christ, and then I went to a place that makes the Empyrean and Seventh Heaven seem like a joke in comparison. And then I made all the losers go where they think I went. While they're thinking about where I am they get to spend time there. Whether it's a realm of bones and decay, hellfire; et cetera... They get to sit with their anguish and hatred.

Follow the chain up and up... I'm not circumstance. A reason to do anything is circumstantial. If I seem to be doing something for a reason then that's only circumstance acting through what seems like me. A pathology for instance -- completely circumstantial. The hylics call seeing the soul within this as 'being illogical' where listening to them is a random act of the spirit.

But none of that really matters. I feel like I'm dying. Some of the stuff I'm writing makes sense, and the rest is just abstract philosophy. I'm in a realm where I'm constantly born into a self that's only seen words. What memories do I have to call upon that aren't just more philosophy? And none of it's clear as to who's who... Maybe I'm just an amnesiac? What if there's a concrete self?

Whatever it is I've got to get out the door and skate to work or else I'll die a lot sooner. I don't know how to do anything else for money. I don't even know how to ask for money... This vessel isn't meant to stay in this world for very long. If it serves to make the capitalist pigs sick to their stomachs then I'm a fitting martyr even while I'm still alive.

I mean... just imagine there's two buttons. On one button you be me, and the other button you instantly die. This isn't to say I want everyone to copy my pattern of behavior, but to call attention to how a lot of people would rather die. Of course it'd be bad science to put it in front of a suicidal person, or someone who values their personal identity above life itself... but a lot would probably chance death.

If it's already a fate worse than death then that means I'm like a super martyr. I'm like out martyring Jesus Christ right now if that's the case. I'm doing all that fate worse than death stuff continuously where a martyr death only happens once. I guess I can play guitar and write pretty sentences; so that's cool I guess. Someone like you is reading this, like you at least in knowing how to read, and would rather die than suddenly be me. Anyways, Christ and I put our differences aside. It is what it is.