#i am filled now with an inexplicable existential dread

[millennial-midlife-crisis]

Gratitude is a Grift

Life is indeed an enigmatic journey, filled with complexities that often seem beyond our control. It is as though we are engaged in an eternal game, grappling with a kaleidoscope of emotions. At one moment, we find ourselves pondering the profound questions of existence, which inevitably impact our lives, leaving us wondering if anything truly matters when we lack the power to influence how events unfold. The next moment, our hearts overflow with gratitude, cherishing the simplest joys, such as the comforts of working from home or the bliss of solitude.

This cosmic tug-of-war between existential dread and unabashed gratitude becomes a constant endeavor to find balance amidst emotional turmoil and uncertainty. We grapple with an unyielding chaos, which may very well stem from an overactive and ever-watchful mind.

The enormity of the world's expanse and the insignificance of our individual impact can be overwhelming, frequently visiting us with a wave of existential. We find ourselves as mere specks in the vastness of the universe, with events unfolding around us over which our actions have no impact. In our obsession to comprehend the chaos, we often seek out patterns and cycles to derive some semblance of order and meaning. The desire to make sense of the inexplicable seems innate to human nature.

However, what further exacerbates our predicament is the manipulation wielded by political and religious ideologies. They engage in a cunning blame game, absolving themselves of any accountability for negative outcomes, while eagerly claiming credit for any semblance of positivity. This sinister "spin the wheel of blame" narrative designates us, the individuals, as scapegoats for all that goes awry.

Anxiety about the future, according to these ideologies, rests solely on the individual's shoulders, whereas the collective responsibility of society and its ruling powers is conveniently dismissed. On the rare occasion that something serendipitous transpires, they attribute it not to our endeavors but to our affiliation with their exclusive circle or belief system. This disillusioning reality becomes the source of endless frustration, for we find ourselves entrapped in this game of blame, an inescapable aspect of our existence.

The pervasive nature of this manipulation profoundly disheartens me. While I can discern the perpetrators and their tactics, I am struck by the susceptibility of most individuals to emotional manipulation and psychological warfare conducted by these elite, wealthy, and self-absorbed narcissists who wield immense power and control. They champion the concept of individual responsibility while cunningly sidestepping the collective impact of their own actions. Astonishingly, we are ensnared by these narratives, perpetuating their authority as an irrefutable truth.

Now, as we delve into the concept of gratitude, it becomes imperative to differentiate between what may be considered "pure" and "manufactured" expressions of this emotion. I staunchly believe that a "cult of gratitude" has been meticulously constructed, functioning as a test to gauge our susceptibility to their influence. This psychological evaluation then enables certain ideologies, such as bootstrapping or manifestation, to keep us docile, insisting that any perceived issues in the world or personal vexations are solely our individual responsibility. They often proclaim that one "chooses to see the negative" or "fails to practice gratitude." This insidious mechanism perpetuates the elites' control and serves as a key ingredient in their recipe for maintaining power.

"Pure" gratitude is a genuine and beautiful emotion that enriches our well-being, acknowledging the positive aspects of life. However, the focus here is on the insidious "manufactured" gratitude, which is weaponized and manipulated to suppress dissent and hamper our demand for change.

We are incessantly bombarded with messages encouraging us to be thankful for what we have, discouraging any expression of discontent or critique of the status quo. This orchestrated strategy aims to divert our attention from pressing issues, keeping us content in our current situations.

This manufactured "cult of gratitude" crafts an illusion that any challenges we face are solely the result of our lack of gratitude, concealing the systemic flaws and inherent inequalities prevalent in society. This ruse effectively shields the ruling class from accountability, perpetuating a cycle of control.

It is essential to recognize this manipulation and to distinguish between genuine and manufactured gratitude. Genuine gratitude allows us to acknowledge the positives without negating our legitimate concerns and challenges. It serves as a catalyst for empathy and compassion, propelling us to seek a more equitable world where everyone enjoys equal opportunities and rights.

As much as I would advocate for us to resist falling prey to this manufactured manipulation and to transcend the existential crisis it throws at our feet, it appears that evading its grasp is nearly impossible. The awareness of constant manipulation notwithstanding, there is no swift, easy, or benign way to overturn the established order. We find ourselves confined to the interstice between existential dread and gratitude, endeavoring to instigate change in our lives. Regrettably, even if we succeed in improving our circumstances, it often comes at the expense of others, albeit indirectly. Lamentably, this world is not without flaws, with occasional fanciful revolutions against the elite cabal succumbing to violent repression or yielding to the crumbs of appeasement scattered by those in power.

[creamypudding]

Might just be real for a tick and vent into the ether.

I feel broken. Something deep in my head and my soul. It's different from the existential dread I had a few months ago where I felt inexplicably, bottomlessly sad. I'm not sad, but I feel empty.

It started with the loss of a long-held job. It was a stressful period where hope left me and I drowned myself in the banality of Netflix to take my mind off an uncertain and difficult future.

I found a job in a relatively quick time-frame (thank fuck) - a better paid job, so life is way better, and yet that angst and stress has ripped something from me, or at the very least knocked it out of place.

This was also right around the time COVID became a huge problem again for my country so I am happy to concede that maybe that is weighing on me too. It seems more serious now as the strains get further and further out of control. And in addition to this we are hurtling toward the—what feels like an almost inevitable—collapse of our environment and ecosystem so that really doesn't help anything either.

Life is pretty shit for the world. The future looks grim. The thing that brought me joy and sanity (writing) does nothing anymore.

*I* do nothing anymore. The idea of looking at anything I've written fills me with absolutely no want or passion. It's like a chore that I don't care to perform. Although I did have a mini spark today when I woke up from a tiny nap. I left my bed and headed for the living room where I had left my phone and by the time I found it all desire to dive back into a world and story I had immense drive and motivation for fizzled out like a Wyle E. Coyote bomb fuse that goes out just before it reaches the detonation point because that's just his luck.

I was half hoping that some enthusiasm would return to me on posting my latest story but the below luke warm reception, though expected because fish monster fucking is hardly anyone's cup of tea 😅, is still, as you might imagine, disheartening.

I'm not someone who generally needs to rely on outside motivation to keep writing because of how much I have always loved writing, but the passion has vanished so I am looking for any kind of outside spark, as it were.

I suppose that is because I can't remember my love for writing ever having been gone for quite this long. I remember that in the past I was burnt out from a long-fic. But that is a different feeling to what I am currently experiencing.

Burnt-out is an exhaustion. What I'm feeling right now though is that I just don't care and some days I find myself pulled out of my new hobby of looking after house plants (researching, gardening, watching informative YouTube videos) and I think to myself that I may seriously never write again because of how much I don't care about finishing my stories. Even my long standing passion projects. Though maybe it is a little bit more of an exhaustion when I think on my long-term projects. Hmm.

Generally speaking though, I just... Am fizzled out. It's probably overdramatic but at the same time... Life feels hopeless. Maybe I have fallen into another existential dread, afterall. Not that it matters. Wallowing only helps so much.

Useful things I can do for myself...

- Probably try and find a therapist to talk this out with for a few sessions at least. (Though it feels like this post is already going a good long way in fulfilling this bit)

- Stop tuning into the news on a daily basis. I have been consuming it way too much and while I think I'm fine, clearly I'm not.

- Maybe have a real talk with a friend. Like over the phone and not just text messages.

- Have a long, hard cry. I know I said earlier that I wasn't sad but as I've written this the tears have begun.

- Recognise that I could also be just fucking overly emotional lately because stress and change of routine and my menstrual cycle wreaking havoc.

- Exercise. When I lost my job I fell out of my newly-forming and very fragile exercise routine. I should really prioritise that.

And maybe once I do some or all of the above I can find myself again and reignite my passion and want.

Ok. Thanks for coming to the Pudding self-care talk. I think I got some stuff off my chest and figured out a practical plan of attack.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Not Killing Him

Orion Crown sat in his big, mean-looking SUV in the old parking lot. The dry heat of Vegas had ripped up the asphalt here over the past years, leaving it pockmarked and littered with potholes. His own car and one other vehicle in the lot were the only ones parked there, immobile, like silent steel corpses, cooling in the shadow of some abandoned warehouse.

The thick windows shielded him from the noise of traffic in the distance, so Orion sat in a weirdly muffled silence. Staring at the entrance of the derelict warehouse with its crooked, ajar doors. He felt sick to his stomach because he had slept little more than a few hours per night and his forehead was burning up.

He picked up his phone from the passenger seat, snatching it from where it was resting next to a loaded semi-automatic pistol. He thumbed through the display, checking his recent direct messages on your social media platform of choice.

Orion Crown, social media darling and super-giant of the statusphere. He flipped through business proposal messages from other influencers, something marginally important from his YouTube video editor, and an array of annoyed passive-aggressive texts from his producer-slash-partner. He let the list slide to a stop, with this finger hovering over the display. Hovering just over the message from “The Glass King” with the preview field only saying that it contained a GIF.

The internet star dithered. He could refuse to walk into that warehouse and refuse to use that gun. His career and life would be over, though.

The alternative was sucking it up, gripping the cold metal of the pistol in his palm, walking in there, and blasting away. Didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t know, didn’t care.

Even though seeing the message’s contents disturbed him every time he reviewed it, his thumb descended in slow motion. Like time almost ground to a halt, like the universe was trying to stop him from watching it again.

He tapped the message and it flicked onto full display on his screen.

The animated GIF flashed with disturbing imagery, all of it cut so quickly and abruptly that it became impossible to take it all in. Words and symbols displayed for fractions of seconds so that the mind could not really grasp what it read, and video footage that may or may not contain clipped recordings of overt violence. Violence he, himself, had authored.

The glare of his phone reflected in Orion’s glassy eyes, pupils dilating with dread and disassociation. Knowing that he recognized some of the things presented here so subliminally and viscerally, feeling guilt even though he had always rationalized the terrible things he had done in the past.

How was anybody better? How could anybody be better?

I am not a bad person, Orion thought. Nobody is.

After watching the animated GIF loop countless times, glued to the phone’s display as if bound in a trance, he put the phone back down onto the passenger seat, a hand’s breadth away from the gun. He barely registered the words that followed far down below the window of animation.

The threats. The instructions.

The sentences that had brought him to the locker where he obtained the gun. The address of this warehouse. And his mission, to kill anybody he saw inside this place.

Why didn’t this “Glass King” person just ask for money? Why this? How did the Glass King even get that footage? It had been destroyed long ago.

None of it made any sense.

No matter how many times he mulled it over, Orion Crown—born with the more unglamorous name of Kyle Howard—his sense of self-preservation, greed, and existential dread always won out. Always looped him back to doing as he was told as long as it served his own purposes. To get this over with, and walk away, and never let anybody know of his dirty secrets.

If the Glass King put any of that out—if they aired out any of Orion Crown’s dirty laundry—then he would be out of the game. Done. Probably also in prison.

Orion looked over to the gun. Stared at it, taking in every hard and unforgiving edge and angle of its sleek industrial design.

He had before, and he pondered it again, now: to just pick it up and stick the nuzzle right into his own mouth. Pull the trigger and end it right now.

But his vanity and pride, masked with religious guilt and eclipsed by copious amounts of doublethink, led him to believe that this was the only way.

He grabbed the gun and weighed it in his hand. Orion licked his lips and they felt funny. Not chapped, but uneven. Slimy. He bit his lip and chewed without realizing it, while his gaze swept up and down the crumbling building of this damned warehouse.

In one fluid motion, he got out of his car, slammed the door shut, and walked towards the entrance of the warehouse. The heat outside his car, even here in the shade—combined with the inexplicable fever he was running—made his head swim as if he had been drinking nonstop for the past day and night.

He gripped that pistol in his fist like his life depended on it. And as far as Orion was concerned, it did.

The rusted hinges on the big metal double doors squealed and he cringed at the sound of it, freezing in place. His heart raced, his pulse thundering in his ears. Eyes darted back and forth, looking for a sign of anybody in there. Whoever had parked the other car had to be in here, and Orion’s job was to gun them down.

Something heavy, like a brick hitting a pile of rubble, echoed through the decrepit and dingy halls.

Orion’s hand jerked and he pointed the gun out in front of himself, aiming at every dark corner and little thing he could perceive. With nobody in sight, the adrenaline pumped through his body, suffusing him with a quiet rage and driving the sweat to erupt from his pores, clouding his senses and sapping his reason.

He sidled through the entrance and crept through the abandoned place, twitching at any possible sound he thought he heard and any shadow he saw in the corner of his eyes, expecting someone, anybody, to jump out at him.

Something chugged and sputtered, causing him to freeze once more. He continued sneaking on when he recognized those sounds to be coming from a gas-powered generator, hidden somewhere deeper within the warehouse’s bowels.

He kind of hoped that someone would jump out at him from a blind spot. Thinking it would be much easier to pull the trigger if it felt like self defense.

Instead, he found a large, wide, pillared hall, awaiting him at the end of a long twisting and turning through claustrophobia-inducing corridors.

Someone had arranged seven door frames in a perfect circle, bolted down with plywood feet to support their weight, sawdust and power tools littering the dirty floors, and that distinct smell of freshly cut wood hanging in the air.

Each door frame held a door, closed and looking far too new to fit into this warehouse. An array of four construction site spotlights illuminated the doors from their center, connected to a tangle of bright orange power cord extensions, leading his sweeping gaze to the generator he had been hearing chug away all this time.

The doors were just standing there, out in the open, connected to no walls. Leading nowhere.

Orion gripped the pistol in both hands, holding it outstretched far in front of himself. He had never fired a gun before in his life. Without realizing it, he both wanted the thing to be as far away as possible from himself, but also wanted to use it and for things to be over fast.

But nobody was here. Right?

Wrong.

Arriving in the center of the seven doors, he blinked and inspected a small pile of objects heaped up in between the four spotlights.

A bunch of broken smartphones, a black wig, a small cracked hand mirror, a pile of about twenty credit cards that had been sloppily cut in half, a bunch of different keys that looked far too old to fit the locks on the doors here, and all of the objects rested on top of a local city map that someone had drawn all over with a black magic marker.

A pebble crunched underneath a boot. But not Orion’s shoe. He swiveled, almost getting dizzy at his own speed as he pointed the gun at the source of the noise.

Standing only steps away from the other person, he held the pistol out and swallowed. No matter how many times he had tried to mentally prepare for this moment, he hesitated and his index finger trembled instead of squeezing around the trigger.

Nobody jumping out at him. Just standing there.

She stared into the barrel of his gun for a split second and then met his gaze. A woman in her twenties, dressed like a man. Or—at second glance—androgynous, like she was in some sort of getup for a rock or punk band from the 1990s. Clad in a ratty leather jacket and dark jeans; covered in studs on her clothing, a chain hanging from her belt, and spikes protruding from a choker around her neck; way too much makeup on her face; and a poorly-cut hair-do of shaved sides and long top that could constitute as a fashion crime.

More distracting, however, was the hand she held in her hand. Orion did a double take on that before he fully absorbed what he saw there. A waxen hand with candlewicks sticking out from the fingertips, gripped firmly in her slender hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked Orion. She squinted at him.

He squeezed the trigger. It didn’t work. The fucking gun refused to work.

Orion turned it over and looked at it and realized that it had a safety setting which he had forgotten to take care of before walking into the building.

Clink. Snap.

The woman flicked a lighter on and guided it to the waxen hand in her hand and he had flicked the safety and pointed the gun at her and the next thing Orion knew, his wrists hurt. And so did his neck. And his lower back.

Chafing against exposed skin, coarse rope and the smell of burnt candles still filled his nostrils. He began thrashing but found that his limbs did not obey his instinct to struggle against his bonds because of how tightly he was tied down. He scraped his skin against something like rough rock or rusty metal behind him.

Blinking and fighting the fever back down, the taste of iron clung to his tongue. His vision blurred here and there and reality caught back up to him with disjointed delay. She had tied him to something in sight of the circle of seven doors.

The woman crouched in front of one of the doors, her back turned to him.

With a loud PLOP, she opened something in her hands and whatever she was doing, it resulted in the door being splattered with something dark and red.

Hoarse, the words croaked out of his throat and left him sounding more like a toad. “Hey,” Orion emitted. “Let me go!”

The woman whispered something and it dawned on him that it was no response to him.

“What the fuck are you doing? You’re gonna get into so much trouble if you don’t let me go,” he said. But it really was just pathetic pleading, masquerading as feeble threats. “Police’ll be all over your ass, lady.”

She continued whispering and splashed more of the dark crimson liquid over the next door, to its left.

Something crunched. It drew both Orion’s attention, and that of the woman. They both stared at the thing crawling into the large hall, emerging from the corridors he had entered from. The way they paused, paralyzed with disbelief—and the failure of the human mind’s capability to process what they were looking at—took in the thing moving along the floor.

It looked like a pile of trash, like someone had kicked over a garbage can and the contents of four weeks of refuse had spilled out over the ground. With a stench to match. But parts of it looked fleshy, or sponge-like. Wobbling but staying whole, like a block of jello. Other bits, like stalks, or tentacles, tiny and too many to count, coiling and recoiling and almost like they were looking in every direction, but seeing without any discernible eyes.

Death and evil incarnate, crawling over the filthy floors. Hungry, but slow. Creeping. Part of the world’s abandoned things, coalesced and fused into something awful, something trapped in between the realm of the living and the realm of non-existence; a vessel to something worse, something spawned in the darkest recesses and the deepest abyss of human sin. Crawling, and more than one. Another pile of living muck and vomit-inducing presence followed. And another. And another.

Rejects.

They headed towards the seven doors with painful slowness. But one of them began veering away from the rest, inching closer towards Orion.

Thwuck. Shlack. Scrape.

Orion wanted to throw up. He started wriggling, thrashing, fighting against his bonds, but none of it helped. He looked back at the woman in desperation.

She breathed through her teeth, “Shit.”

Haste colored her every movement now and she haphazardly sprayed more liquid onto the doors. One by one. She whispered all the while, though the whispers had made way to hectic chanting. Orion had no chance in understanding it, for the words sounded nothing like any language he had ever heard before.

Almost matching the sounds made by the Rejects, creeping forth.

Scrape. Flesh. Shlef. Thwuck.

The Reject crawled closer. Ever closer to him.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, first blurring his sight a little, and then a lot. Orion had no time or space to realize how that might have been better, he only felt the deep-rooted dread in his stomach. The certainty of death by this abomination, crawling up to him. Only an arm’s length away from his kicking feet.

The stench intensified as the thing got closer, robbing him of any speech, making him wretch.

Images of the GIF on his phone flashed in his mind. The violence he had inflicted, captured on camera—his own recordings, not meant for public consumption—sent to him by the Glass King.

Just like these monsters had been sent by the Glass King.

Orion screamed for help.

A figure in a long black duster emerged from the corridors, standing still at the edge of the large hall, staring at the seven doors. Orion screamed for help from him, now. But within just a few beats of his heart, pounding so hard that it wanted to burst from his chest, he knew deep down that this man was the master of the Rejects.

No—this man was the Glass King, and he cared nothing for Orion’s plight. Hell, he probably enjoyed it. Orion sensed that just much malice from the presence of his man, and his imagination ran wild in response to the evil emanating from his body, hitting his entire being like a truck.

“Will you even be you when you return from that place? If you return from the house?” asked the man, directing his words at the woman by the doors.

Cold and uncaring about Orion, who was now screaming at the top of his lungs. Because something cold and wet and slimy slapped against the bottom of his shoe. And slithered up it, tugging at shoe laces, wrapping around the leg of his pants by his ankle, and applying pressure. Pulling itself upwards.

Onto him.

The woman never stopped chanting, flinging blood at those doors and then sticking something white and misshapen into the keyhole of one of the brass knobs, exposed by the glaring cone of light from one of the spots. She stopped chanting.

“You can’t stop change. Everything changes. That’s all you’re really afraid of, isn’t it?” she shouted. Anger making her voice tremble. Also something insecure. Or fear.

She ripped the door open and ran through it and slammed it shut behind her, but she didn’t emerge from the other side.

Just gone. Vanished into thin air.

Orion had neither eyes nor mind for this phenomenon, however. He only felt the many tiny tendrils of trash touching, feeling, finding their way up his limbs. A path of disgusting discovery, exploring his body like an alien creature trying to figure out human anatomy, but in reality just so depraved and sinister that it pretended to be doing so when it fed on his festering dread and despair.

Was this what it was like to be helpless? To be used, and chewed out?

To cry for help, but be ignored?

He had no capacity left for clean, deep thoughts. Only terror filled his being. The Reject crawled up over him, exerting the weight of a full-grown person, pinning him down and amplifying his sense of helplessness.

Some part of him expected to feel tiny teeth from tiny mouths chewing away at him, but the slithering and worming motions only reflected the darkness in his own heart, mirroring the corruption that had always haunted him. His screaming died down, petering out into a hoarse unintelligible something that transformed into whimpering.

The man in the duster—the Glass King—clicked his tongue but ignored Orion, approaching the seven doors.

“You didn’t answer my question, Kimmy. You fear the answer, or you’d say it out loud,” muttered the Glass King.

Orion expected the sensation of cold metal to be cutting his flesh, but the wet something was more like saliva dispersed from tongues, oozing across his skin. He expected for those rubber bands and spongy stalks to wrap around his neck and choke the life out of him, but they only squeezed a little bit. Just enough to be uncomfortable, and just enough for the Reject to enjoy it.

It breathed on him. The Reject engulfed him, not killing him.

The man in the duster turned on his heels.

Eyes wide open, stricken with unnatural knowing accumulated from a thousand lives and a deep-seated and all-devouring madness—staring into Orion’s eyes. The Glass King’s stare reached deep inside, prying away at his secrets like a lunatic ripping away at the fabric padding lining the walls of a forgotten cell, for those crazy eyes had seen the same GIF as he had. Knew what he knew. Knew his every dirty secret.

Much worse was the grin plastered across his face. Toothy, sadistic, and stretched far too wide to look fun or what was natural for that human face.

“Oh, Kyle, my boy,” said the Glass King, with the grin never wiping itself off his face. “You had one job and you bungled it. But no worries, I still have use for you. Your name, your reputation—your face. Enough mojo there for me to milk for a far greater purpose. Good on you for at least coming here, huh?”

The Glass King took a few steps closer towards Orion. Neared. Menace echoing with each step of his boots thumping against the dirty floor.

Orion wasn’t even whimpering anymore. Before a sheet of paper with something cold and wet and fleshy clinging to its underside had fully crept up the side of his face and covered it—before he closed his eyes and lost sight—he wanted to protest.

But he had no words.

Some part of him, matched only by his urge to vomit, knew he deserved this. Every second of it.

The Reject breathed on him, hot and damp and unpleasant. It almost entirely engulfed him, satisfied with the almost.

Not killing him.

—Submitted by Wratts

[whentherewerebicycles]

ok I had a lovely weekend filled with friends and dogs but man!!! sunday existential angst hits me so hard every week and it‘s almost worse after I’ve had a nice weekend, maybe because descending to the usual sunday lows feels like an even more abrupt downward plunge.

let me describe it in an attempt to exorcise it. for me the existential angst isn’t even dread about the work week starting really. it seems to have nothing to do with anything. it’s a feeling of inexplicable deep loneliness, which settles heavily over my thoughts regardless of whether I am with other people or by myself. that loneliness is tinged with this weird semiconscious awareness of my own mortality... not like ‘I’m going to die right now!’ but this oppressive certainty, just at the edges of my mental vision, that someday death will extinguish me and everyone I love, and how trivial are all my hopes and plans. I find it difficult to focus because my mind seems to just skitters from thought to thought, not wanting to dwell on anything too long, craving distraction, which makes me feel even more uneasy and full of dread.

however, this feeling too shall pass. I think it partly caused by having unstructured time + a vague sense of guilt and shame over not working or not spending that time in productive ways. soon the rhythms of the week will start up again and I will have structure/purpose/direction. some good things I‘ve done for myself today: I cleaned my whole apartment and mapped out some of the small things I need to do for teaching tomorrow. now I think I am going to go write for a bit, maybe 500 words or so just to keep chipping away at this project I’m working on. if I am still feeling dread after that, maybe I’ll go for a run or a long neighborhood walk to clear my head. then later this evening I will do about an hour of research to prep this lecture tomorrow.

[louisfallierestrois]

nothin' stopping you and me, baby

"wack, tbh, I could do better," he wrote to himself, for what must have to have been the? 12th time? and then he sat there and gave it a good long think you know, one of those things that he only ever gives to something that's ACTUALLY worth thinking about, not like math -- that shit that he's GOT to think about for a paycheck like WE get it world, you don't actually care about what I have to say, but you're intrigued at how I work the numbers isn't everyone? I digress Point is, Our relationship was... all just one, really elaborate play on words like, REALLY elaborate like physically? we didn't do a single bad thing to each other In fact, I'd say our physical love was the purest thing I've ever felt it's okay you might be sitting to yourself muttering "ugh, no he's got it all wrong" But hear me out, I'm sure you can say that, There was a part of you that you never really faked when you were with me How do I know? Because I know how it's like to fake an emotion, and arguably maybe you faked some of it towards the end of our relationship, but at the peak, there was really nothin' stopping you and me, baby we're just too alike Having found out what I found out though - God, sometimes I really tell myself that maybe your cousin just lied to put a further riff between us, but what the fuck does that say about the whole thing? I was willing to believe her, believe you? agh, what I'm trying to say is, there's a fine line between listening to either one of you ya know? But at the end of the day It's all just words words words something really tells me that this isn't the end of us, not by a long shot what is that thing, you might wonder? Well, I think I've got it all figured out Ya know that thing that... keeps bringing you back here? It's okay, you're probably all like, fuck man he's really got me on the ropes, there's no way he can mess this up and now we're just gonna joke about how I'm probably gonna mess it up, NOT because I'm not smart enough, but shit, because when it comes to you Kat, I just melt away a little bit. I come away at the seams. This wall I've built so damn high so that the outside world doesn't see who I really am... it comes down with you. This is usually the part where I convince myself you don't feel the same way, but honestly, You're here, Right? You know what I mean? Like you're here, Reading these words... Confidence doesn't even describe How SURE I am that you're reading this I'm adding this part in after I finished writing the rest, kinda like a reflection: i was pretty conflicted for a while, unsure if I should out right TELL (well really, TEXT) you to read this, but then I reread those last two lines *cue you rereading the last two lines before this whole little break in thought* Yea sorry, I just did something really clever and at this point I just want you to acknowledge how clever it was, not like a sarcastic, "haha, clever" but more like a "damn, that was smooth, luis, you really got a way with them wordssssssss" okay you see? You probably don't think all that but I'm just gassing myself and just... I don't even take myself that seriously but Sometimes, I just do some objectively cool shit ya know, like the way I ended this this is back to the stuff I wrote in the moment: And fuck man I think that means something and I'm just gonna run with it. That inexplicable urge that brings you to look at my tumblr every now and then, even when you get happy that I'm not around, even when you get sad that I'm not That shit takes me over sometimes too That's why I'm here, at 6 AM just ranting away About you, so fucking sure that you're gonna listen and maybe that's why I still love you YeaH, fucking... weird turn of events... I know I just? Really don't have a firm grip on my own emotions and really let that get in the way of something beautiful but just like that, I'm changing the pace "you sick fuck..." I repeated to myself, about myself I mean, I really hope you don't think I'm a sick fuck after all this But like, I kinda think I am? But then again, I just am always gonna think I am? like... this existential dread? this emptiness inside no drug is gonna fill it no job promotion no single relationship nothing is gonna fill this fucking void. And that's something I didn't see before, and now I see it. If we ever got a chance to do... US over again... it'd be so wholesome, ya know? I have such confidence that really great things could come from it I mean shit, just look at how we cared for Hailey (for the viewers at home, Hailey is a guinea pig me and my ex, the girl this is all about, called, 'our daughter' and yea we didn't make the damn thing but sometimes we'd joke around and say stuff like 'yeah, I remember the day you gave birth to her' I mean, sounds a little silly when you write it all out like that but, it's okay, I just needed to give you some clarification like YOU needed some clarification, But YOU know what I'm talking about) (okay, fuck, maybe I'm just getting a little too meta here, but, I tried to make a distinction between AUDIENCE and INTENDED AUDIENCE and I just need to make sure that was clear before we could go on. Like, Kat, I'm writing this TO you, I hope that's clear as day If you're not Kat then...you're just reading this from a whole different perspective ya know? and that definitely gives it all a different aesthetic... so uh... yea not sure how I can dig myself out of this hole, especially because I KNOW you've read the next line lowkey because you gave it a little peak of the eye, so just stick with me now. If you're still following, go up a few lines, and start reading from the line that starts with: 'you sick fuck' and just pretend this whole set of parenthesis isn't there) Wow, now im crying, I mean, I've been lowkey crying for a while writing this whole thing? but the beauty of language is that I'm choosing to emphasize it now. Like that's it, You're thinking about me crying Yeah, sorry, hard to get that image off your mind I know I think about all the times I made you cry, And I just, wish I never did