the optimist's obituary

To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. It’s been about three days since I’ve seen the last remnants of human society - and yet, I can’t seem to find a single sign that they disappeared. It seems to me that somehow, they’re all hiding and waiting to play, in the dusts and sands of the deep blue. It hurts. I don’t know what to do. But hey, the sun will rise every day, as it once did and will always do. As above, so below. It’s a phrase I’ve been thinking about for a while. I’m not really sure why.

Today I’ve been wondering how I will get home. I mean, if everyone else is hiding who will drive the cars? Who will make the days turn? Who will make the cars that go round and round and try and try as they will to circle the world, cursed to always fall short from their planned obsolescence, It feels unfair. It feels so, so unfair. Why won’t they come home? It’s not funny anymore, and I’ve proclaimed it several times to the wind - only to get none in reply. The silence is deafening in its ringing of my ears, like a death toll that should’ve rung a thousand days ago. The performance will go on, as usual.

I don’t understand what makes people hurt. The world is full of life and love, so so full of the world of wiggling squirming things that are meant to feed into a cycle of the next life, and it’s what keeps us alive and able to feel the wind in our gills and the sand in our all-too-sane hearts. I’m just writing a stream of consciousness here. What is it that makes people decide to hurt? Does the sand burn your ribcage, burn far, far down deep into the core of which you cannot perceive? Into the cells of your very being that daren’t speak your name? Where is the dust, anyways Did everyone take it home? I miss it. Please bring it back, it’s become something I’m quite fond of,

Today is another day, as it often is every day. Yesterday it wasn’t. Yesterday was painted with the faint sense of remembrance, and its thick noxious presence was inescapable. The people are lying, they see the winds, and they move on with their lives nonetheless. The sky was tinted red and red and red and oh god was it red, but nobody saw it but me. When will someone tell me why I am like the way I am? But that is for another day, and that day is yesterday, not Today. Today I have wandered the scapes of glass and cut my feet on its jagged existence, and it was so beautiful. The light glistens off the existence like it is a lake of long forgotten worlds.It feels like I’ve done this before. I don’t think I know what I’m doing - but then again, when do we ever? I’m talking to you, of course - the “You” that reads this some time in the distant future or the near past, whichever comes first. It’s comforting to know that someone will know your life exactly as it is someday, and they will never even know it until it has already passed. Tomorrow is another day, and it will be good. My eyesight folds its cards and I am once again lost to the day.

I hope that someday I can grow the poppies of hope in my garden. They seem so beautiful from the pictures, the wrinkled pictures that are cracked from the edges they were folded on, like playing cards in God’s twisted game of poker. What does he want with our memories anyways? Does he sell them to some crazy bastard to make more seams on our twisted forms? It feels so hopeless. Aren’t there plenty already? But I suppose that’s neither here nor over there. Over there, in the foggy silhouettes of dances. What am I even doing here? Oh, right. I think I’m meant to be over there, actually. It’s a hard thing to do, move your body from place to place to break apart matter
and form it again and kill all the small creatures
in your body just for their children to make their children from their rotting corpses. It feels cathartic, in a way. Almost holy. What do the people not know about this that makes them worship a single figure in the far distance of their holy dances? The only dances I’ve ever considered holy are the ones the birds and mantises create with their lovers as they tear their mothers and fathers apart to make their own children, whether they know it or not. And, who’s to say if they do? Today I took a walk on the cool sand dunes. It felt eerily familiar, like a life I had already lived two years in the future. When will this happen? Is it a precursor to my death? Who’s to say, really. Not I, certainly, and so I shall not dwell upon it, for the sake of my optimism and shambling corpse. As above, so below.

Jesus christ, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. But this feels… fun, in a way. It’s like rewriting the events of a life that exists in my brain, and maybe someday when they all come home I can show them all and they will laugh and cry and giggle and yell and scream about how much of a failure I am and how I should never see them again. It’s terrible, but I don’t mind all too much. It’s just a stream of consciousness, after all. Who am I to dictate the opinions of others on their deepest mindsets? It’s hard to write words when your hands are breaking apart. The pen and ink (from which I salvaged off of the corpse of a dying statue, I don’t know why he had this) are decaying by now, and so I try and try and try and god do I try to find a new one. It feels like all that I do here and all that I write keeps the eyes off of me and my sanity within me. It’s so hard. It’s so goddamn hard. Why? Why why why why why must I keep doing it? I don’t actually mind all that much. I said that for dramatic effect. I found a new pen. It’s green, like the grasses of my youth, and your present. One can only imagine, and hope, and pray. To a god that lives within and is with in and is all that you are.

It feels like I’ve wandered these caverns for an eternity. What does it matter what words I use to say anything? You will make an image nonetheless, and feel feelings that your mind chooses to feel. My breath is heavy and my footsteps long as I stumble through the subway. The subway, God, the subway. It’s still functional, and it’s as if I can hear the endless chatter of a thousand beings that came through these halls hundreds of times a day. The walls are bright with color but barren of meaning. I’m so tired. I think i’m going to be gone for a while