Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Ich Bin Leer

My diagnoses have failed; I cannot identify my sickness. I can't categorize it and give it nomenclature and label it and stick it under a microscope to examine - nothing.

There are a few people who claim I'm not as empty as I believe - not as hollow and unable to be filled. Their protests are sweet, but sadly, misinformed...only I have been privy to all that Colin Andrew MacDougall has thought, seen, done, heard...and although I have bias, I have the whole story. And so I ultimately cannot accept the perspective of any other on face value, simply because when they claim 'I know you' I can only sigh and tell them 'I don't know myself; how would you be better at discerning what I am'.

I suppose if I do that for too long, they'll eventually stop telling me that, and then, a slow settling into the acceptance of the void inside, the hole that god made in man, the hole every man spends every waking minute trying to fill, with Jesus or cash or a glitzy job or a boob-job or a Ferrari or just good old drugs. My hole is simply cut of a different blade, a different shape, a different depth. This is what I have come to realize. This is what I am coming to accept.


"This is the only friend, the hurts to set you free...but you'll never follow me...the end of laughter and soft lies...the end of nights we tried to"