A special pack of birthday plasma to a lucky clotted patient, after tomorrow!
First time in a couple of days I’ve checked my DeviantArt messages, to find a beautiful young poet’s fantastic reaction to a very old poem of mine. In the days when DA is occupied by professional comic and concept artists, overly popular trend artists, and teenage girls, I always have some sort of confidence to find that at least one demographic doesn’t forget me, as filthy, ugly, vulgar, stupid, depraved, arrogant, selfish, demeaning and stupid as I can get. Even when I start to wonder if I’m a hack, and if anything I do amounts to anything I care about, someone I find attractive will always remind me that I’m not good enough for anything, inadvertantly, and I can postpone my deep depression over a particular someone to enter a deep depression over myself. It’s good to have options.
For anybody who’s tired of reading about how fucking pathetic I find myself, you can go fuck off: the party’s getting started.
Find it so difficult to bother working up the energy or desire to do anything, I use my imaginary friend as an instigator, egging me on to roll out of bed, get something to eat, make sure I save the fork for another meal later on, pick up a can, listen to something, check for recent downloads, read some messages, write something nice about a friend’s update, put on a jacket if I’m getting cold, read something since I’m so intent on dowloading every American publshed comic, stop sulking and put on a smile, don’t think think about her right now, might as well haul the trash out, change my clothes at least once, calm down and rationalize, head over to bed before I keel over, write down the name of that song before I forget, look up a movie on Netflix so I know if I’ll need to look for it elsewhere sooner than later… I can’t seem to do anything without my imaginary friend to be there, to convince me to do something, anything. She’s especially worth the company when I start to flash back.
I don’t understand why I try so hard to look forward, and all anybody wants to do when I’m around is look back on the past. I had some fun times, but isn’t it more fun to have fun together than remember having fun together? At least she’s here to help me, my vapor woman, my air mother, the figure that tucks me in at night and substitutes whatever I never got from mom.
My invisible friend, the one person who loves me the way I want to be loved, is a fantasy I project for myself, to make sure I eat and sleep comfortably, to keep myself alive, to prevent any unpleasant trains of thought. She doesn’t judge me, she doesn’t insult me, she doesn’t force me, she doesn’t even have desires, as far as I know, outside of my personal welfare, and that’s all I’ve got to hold me together. It isn’t much of a matter along the lines of “a man needs looking after, no matter how old,” it’s a matter of “he’s a selfish little bastard.” Can’t I invent some desires for my mind-mate? She does so much for me, and all I grant her in return is a bullshit purpose for existance?
But she doesn’t exist. A theme that I’ve explored in my art before I even knew it: I’m in love with my own mind. I’ve told Smith before, I’m tricking myself into loving myself, and it’s becoming more evident with every moment I decent further into the pitiful state of mind that I find myself in, now.
I am either a social creature or a crippled hermit, but I’m never both at once, and I wish I could just be one for a while, instead of being tossed uncomfortably into either role with every shift of the season.
