Monday, 6 April 2015
It's hard to be useless at something. It's hard not to want the world to end. It's hard sometimes not to punch people in the face, but we manage. We drag ourselves along by some miracle of perseverance, like an invisible hand reaching down and pulling us along by the shirt front, as our heads tilt back, lolling around like newborns, and our toes scrape through the dirt. We let ourselves be dragged for 60 or so conscious years, through unpleasantness after unpleasantness, all the stuff we'd rather not deal with, all the things we'd rather not do or have done to us. Then, when we get to the end of the line, the hand lets go and we fall in a pile and shit and piss ourselves where we lay. I wish the hand would instead reach down and spin the earth faster, so everyone I hate would hurry up and be dead.