The dead bird who inexplicably showed up on our porch that we all mutually ignored for weeks, buried in a shallow hole next to piles of dog shit. It is now unearthed due to my dog’s very dog-like nature of digging holes wherever possible. I like to think he’s looking for treasures, and I sometimes encourage him to continue even though I know he won’t find anything of value. It was a fear that he’d dig up someone’s bloated body and the second arrival of the bird led me to the truth: my dog would be an excellent cadaver dog. I no longer think of my own death; I am not afraid of death: I am afraid of life.
When I think of the choices I make, they’re never my choices. I wander until impulse gives way to behavior that many find undesirable. My therapist keeps asking me if I’m concerned. I am very concerned, but of what? The question needs not be answered. Not now, anyway. I am wandering. I live with no consequence. Self-destruction or self-actualization? Does the prophecy ring true? Evangelicals don’t have to be the only ones who believe in predestination. I think schizo’s do it, too. I don’t classify as either and yet we all share the same delusion.
It’s heartwarming and stupid to think of yourself as a part of a universal scheme. Maybe that brings you comfort, maybe the thought envelopes you in a deep despair that sweats your palms and races your heart. The universe doesn’t care about you at all. The universe doesn’t care about me at all. I have to make my own choices and if I keep blaming the voices in my head I’m gonna end up stupid or dead or both. God doesn’t send me dreams at night, and god sure as hell didn’t make them vanish without warning. I miss my dreams. I abused my brain with too many waking thoughts and nightmares and now when I sleep I get to experience the unending nothingness I have left to offer to myself. Sleeping has never been more of a drag.