Fear of God

That's it. I've killed myself tonight.

Figuratively. Literally. I dunno, depends on who or what you are.

I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm tired of maintaining it. I'm tired of it maintaining me.

I've let so many things distract me lately that I've become a distraction. Myself, my Self. That's all it can be, right?

The television. Video games. Stupid, inactive distractions from life have become a numbing sort of comfort to the only-slightly-more-demanding activities, obligations, that I completely ignore. Why? The demands.
No, homework assignments are not demanding. So why does it feel like they are? Is it some sort of reaction? I'm thinking it is.

Out of a two-year relationship, spending ungodly hours in a restaurant that is punching cancerous holes into my soul. I'm depressed because I'm exhausted, unhappy, and inhibited (physically, in my apartment, mentally, all that "laundry", and emotionally, because of my physical and mental state). I don't want to deal with it, so I'm shutting myself in, piece by piece.

And I just deactivated my Facebook account. I just, virtually, killed myself. I severed ties to family, friends, and old friends. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them.

So what am I still doing here?

I dunno. Nobody reads this shit anyway, so it's not like I'm trading one thing for another. Here I can write, here I'm forced to. Here, I don't have ties to ex-girlfriends, and old acquaintances. Here, I'm not distracted by the past. Here, I can only write about the past, remember it. But I can't contact it, I can't communicate to it. Here, I'm only where I am now.

Which is not a great place. The next step is the television, the gaming system. I have to get away from these things, I have to concentrate on what I have to do.

So many peers, the students I'm surrounded by--they don't waste their souls on demanding jobs to make the rent every month. I do, almost every day. And if that's going to work, while school's working, I have to turn so far inward that it's painful. There's no sex and drugs for Ian, David.

I gotta get my own place. I gotta get away, make new memories, leave the old ones to gather dust. I'm killing myself here, hung up on the people I don't know or shouldn't remember. Hung up on everybody that are too compliant or comfortable. On Beatrice, who gets everything he wants, but won't get anything; on Karfilov, who has anything, but probably won't get what he wants; on Maow, Karfilov lite, who needs what she has, and should stay away from what she doesn't want, but can't; on Lovely, who can't stay away from what she doesn't want, and doesn't want what she needs (and who I still most relate to, I think); on Verde, I think that's what I named her, who represents a new direction down the same old path, a painful reminder of everything that's eating me from the inside out; and Rojo, her boyfriend, an appropriate Hindu name, who hates everything about the Chain but hasn't quit; on Mom, and Dad, and Mr. Mom, and Ms. Dad, who seem happy, but are five years ahead of me instead of twenty-five; on every goddamned thing, really.

I gotta get out of here. I feel like I'm twenty-two going on forty-five, except that I don't have the miserable office career - a miserable restaurant job certainly puts you in the right mindset, but you don't have twenty years into a savings account, assuming you've played your cards right.

I want to be creative, and I'm not. I'm repressing everything that I am because I'm in a strange environment, with strange people, at strange times.

Fear. Of. God. Ten weeks ago, my life was at a crossroads. I've simply come back around and now, maybe, I've just wasted ten weeks walking in circles.

Ten weeks is not a long time. Why does it feel like a lifetime ago?

We gotta come back, you and I. We're not going to do it here, nosiree.
The plan for tomorrow is to make it to the store, so I have a bottle of Jameson to spend T-day with. I need time to talk with Mum and Pop, too, because I don't know about Friday, and I've really been looking forward to it...

There is no comfort in self-pity, this I know. Where is the horn that was blowing? How did it come to this?