The Color at My Door

Makes me want to write a book about myself, except the protagonist is a God–or convinced he is a God–traveling through the material plane, and he has been forever banished to this world with a drudge existence never to be sated or satisfied again. He knows it’s fake, this life, just from the sound of the chair creaking, the way the keys clack against the keyboard, the lack of charming bird chirps outside, the sound isn’t right. This reality isn’t correct. Things are not in the right place. And it’s madness and it’s torture and he will never get over it and his ever championed quest to fight it, to live for the dream, the dream on Earth, and to resist the temptation of ultimate rest, suicide, to be placed back into eternal sleep where his dreams lie.

I’m not doing too well in case you couldn’t tell. The mask is digging deeper, the lies are getting stronger, and I fail to achieve or accomplish my tasks still, so that life seems to want to catch up to me and hit me over the head so the hammer is wedged in my skull with the blood dripping out. Ouch.

I can’t explain. I won’t be drained of this curse once too late. Some others have their way. But me I’ll get there yet, no others in my way. I can’t do it. I don’t have the word. These lyrics. They are too good. I cant’ match them.

I miss you. All of the True people in my life, who I never have the courage to say I love, and to be a part of. Why does it take so much initiative, by the by, the get involved with you guys, you fucks, when so perfectly clearly I am meant for you? Anyway. That’s always puzzled me.

I wonder when the next True person will wander into my life. And how long before I lose Them. It’s only a matter of time. No one sticks around. These doors revolve too fast. Thing harder next year, maybe you’ll make it past the gates this time.

Ugh. I can’t.

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