Painkiller

When nothing is satisfying and pride and accomplishment are as fleeting as the lives around you, what can you hope for out of this life?

No scheme, no victory is ever enough.  I chase the next and greatest fix to make these days bearable but nothing comes close.  The people that I use and the aggressiveness that I exhibit are, in many ways, tools for construction that can never be completed.

I know that the depths of my Bipolar Disorder certainly do not help my innate inability to feel anything but fleeting pleasure, but I wonder if it does not go the other way as well.  With many types of depression, any perceived accomplishment or joy can be enough to lift the stricken from their grave.  When I am deadened due to personality disorders, what hope is there for ascension?  I would rather take my cold and logical state than that of the neurotypical, but the most damnable realization of the way my antisocial tendencies manifest is the knowledge that I will never be satisfied.

I used to drink heavily during my early twenties, but I drink very rarely – only a few drinks a month – now.  The bottle was my friend as the physical and mental numbness were something different than the void that I lived in.   Tattoos line my arms where I have had my apathy made physical.  Even then, the pleasure from the thousands of needles piercing flesh have dissipated much like the blood that pour forth from the wounds my knives have carved into my flesh.  Nothing lasts.

No, I will continue to chase purpose, but I have come to accept that any purpose is simple at best.  My search for alleviating boredom and my impossible task of finding satisfaction that lasts for more than mere seconds will not end until my body expires from the cruelty of time.  My task, in the present, is merely to kill pain – even if it means transferring it to others.

Watercolors
Subterfuge

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