MisterDoctor Greenteeth's Pointless Forest of Music and Shit: Another story, like all the rest. Masturbation. And Suicide.

It's only when the night comes that I truly begin to slip, here in this dead city. Alone with just my voices to guide me I start to slip towards suicide, staring at every spot in the room with feigned interest, trying to distract myself from the obvious answers. Having never thought I would live past twenty-five I find myself with no plan, no ground to build on. So then, what are the choices? Continue on slowly becoming more and more unravelled, more and more alone? And with each new frayed threadbare day I'll grow farther from the chance of salvation. I do not want to wake up alone any longer. I do not want to lie awake at night reviewing all that I have lost. Even the music is getting stale, barely raising my heart beyond it's daily slump and slumber. And vicious masturbation has replaced the filthy joy of love. So again, what are the choices?

I can not see myself leaving my mother behind to grieve, or all of the others to whom I've promised that I would not set my art to self destruction. Also I have a near catholic fear of death. Oh, what hell awaits, or what heaven? It is a doom that beats down on my neck pushing my face deeper into my hands, which smell of sweat and soured semen. I look back into the log of my memories and see so many dead faces, piled up and lost, wondering why mine is not among them. And lovers, shaking their heads and smiling at the potential that refuses to be born from these too tired hands. All the screaming and madness that burst out of my heart when I felt them slipping away, all the strangled attempts to cling to the end of the line. There are no answers here, or in any book on my shelves, any page written in light across this screen.

Is it only self pity that drives the razor home, or is there a true justice in choosing when to leave the room, abandon the play and quit home? Drag out the hours, hour after hour, hedging all bets against the possibility of reprieve, one more miracle in a list of miracles that have somehow caught me here- stuck against this stupid world of loss and wait and blind pain.

Then maybe this is it. To be a hermit in a cave scratching out lines in the dark like a mad arithmetic, adding up over and over all the parts to try to make a whole. Fractions and fractured masses strung out like veins of coal digging down deeper in hopes of becoming diamonds. A sick aesthetic monk saving up discarded skins to sew a new self from. A writer, in short, of the type that angsty teens quote to their mothers when all else has failed. Is that enough to hold back the ebb and tide of inevitable suicide for another year or five. Here's to hope then, and a new tomorrow which I fear will taste all to much like it's endless sisters. But maybe not. So until all tomorrows...