I feel hallowed out. Like a pumpkin left on the front porch after Halloween. I’m not depressed, in fact I’m the opposite of suicidal: I really want to live. I look out from my window, from my computer screen, and I see people living and I want to be living like them. Instead, I’m immersed in this gelatinous body of stagnation. I’m a pot left outside for weeks that the rain has collected in and now the mosquito larva has begun to fester inside of me. All of the ugly, terrible potential I possess has started to show itself. And I can’t seem to shake it.
I spend all day learning and relearning about the seemingly endless number of ways human beings can die. I think about death when I’m driving, when I’m eating, when I’m cleaning my apartment. I’m reluctant to re-heat leftover rice because of the 57 questions I’ve answered about Bacillus cereus food poisoning. I just throw it out. About six people I know, essentially acquaintances of mine, have died in the past two months. I hear about these deaths and my mind instinctively hones in on the physical processes that lead to them. Secondarily, I think of their families and pray for their comfort. I know that’s backwards but it’s just a sign of what I’ve turned into. I think about what would happen if I died. Would all my unfinished songs ever see the light of day? Would anyone publish anything of mine posthumously? Would they even be able to figure out how I intended my work to be displayed, read, listened to? Mostly, they are questions of legacy. They are self-centered, narcissistic even. It’s because no one depends on me and I spend all day by myself.
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