Sitting on a boulder on the beach again. 35% battery. Listening to the fireworks while looking at the coffins right now. It’s strange because the explosions don’t feel physically startling, but on some level they must be. Every single one opens a little window to someone’s death, a door slamming, bullet tearing, drone blooming, switch flipping, building collapsing, irreplacable trillion dollar missile making its virgin experimental proof of concept flight & killing fungible-yet-irreplacable children. It’s never been my own death that concerns me. I have been suicidal as long as I can remember. There was just never anything that grabbed me about life. What pulled me out of taking it seriously is the understanding that our own death is not an exit. We don’t go anywhere, do anything, all that matters is the other people on this planet. One person going away doesn’t actually shift the focus, so it follows that other people have always been what’s important. If you give up your life you’re just denying your ability to have a positive effect on the world that would outweigh your own misery. Unless you’re going to be mauled by animals or something & you have one bullet left, or you’re evil (you get the idea here).

Passively, my body is being sustained by the misery of other people. The aspirations of those around me range from artistic fulfillment to having a job where you do as little as possible. I have no agency over my own life. I don’t take any initiative. Everything I learn about what I ought to be doing makes it harder, random comments people make ring in my ears, not out of humiliation, but it’s still like they’re mocking me, daring me to ask them how their parents got their burger joint after fleeing “authoritarianism” & how many homeless people they’ve had to eject from the 90% of their property that is empty wild grass. Saying nothing is the humiliation. I have been telling myself I am biding my time, waiting to do something or other.

The fantasies of being rounded up & killed for supporting Bernie Sanders feel distant, but they were in fact recent enough to surround me with other malformed clones. The idea of sitting through an evening with people I am supposed to meet who already heard about what I am like just makes me certain I already know what they are like. That there is nothing to talk about in this country. Nothing at all. Just distractions. The talk of revolution is entertainment for people who don’t understand what will happen when they get rid of their free time to pursue their aspirations of owning a home.

Do I hope it ends soon? That the bubble pops? Why would I? I have made no preparations. I don’t like to tell people “I told you so”, there is no point. I probably won’t even understand that kind of situation until months afterward. Or maybe I will be too panicked to ever get a handle on what has happened. I just need to talk to people who understand that the people we are killing are so much better than us. That we are miserable because we don’t want to know any better. There is no grand existential message hiding at the bottom of that glass of wine. Not even so that we can do something, just so I can feel sane. I don’t think that exists or that I deserve it. I deserve to suffer. Well I am good at hiding so nobody can stop me