The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

tea and reassurance

Even ten minutes after I hung up the phone to the guy who was just as horrified as I was at the tragedy that had befallen my best friend who could have done so much more with his life but instead opted for suicide, I was still in shock by it, floating through the delirium of numbness towards an event that should flip off every switch in rationality in my brain but hasn't done so until now, and I'm not really sure which one is worse.

On one hand, there's the sensation of not being able to recall anything that transpired in the past or what is transpiring now, in the real world and not the world that I have constructed entirely to drift through numbness where every fact about it is useless to what is really happening, and it's a bit frustrating, or at least it would be if I were capable of possessing emotions in that blank state of nothingness, because my only knowledge is that of futile affairs when I need to be focusing on reality, but reality is untouchable in that state, a tantalizing heaven far away from my grasp unless something potent like death aids me in my struggles, but it is not the time for death, and thus I continue in the void of existence and emptiness gearing concurrently through my presence in whatever this sheeted world is.

On the other hand, being fully aware of the hell that is marching through my existence when I couldn't spot them on the horizon just a moment ago is perhaps equally as terrible, though I have been unsuccessful in measuring the scale. In this realm, anxiety is choosing to strike each of my organs, one by one so as to revel in their demise and, as a result, my own demise, yet it still sustains me to study how I function when I should no longer be alive but somehow am, by an inexplicable freak of nature performed by people who wish the worst for me. When I am caught in this web of franticness, it feels as though there are a million things to be done, accompanied by the stress induced by the sharp truth that there is actually nothing that I can do whilst I blither about how I need to accomplish something impossible, accomplish something that will never fulfill me, accomplish something that will be eternally molested by my thirsting desire to control theories that cannot be controlled or are rather unwilling to be controlled by off kilter metaphysicists who will manipulate everything over which they can slide their grubby, bullshitting hands. I am suspended in an urge to act on something, but I have no idea what that something is and if it's even attainable, yet I still continue to try to act on it like I'm an expert.

I need to stop pretending, and I need to stop comparing two different types of hell that cannot be compared with their massive disparity, and I need to stop isolating myself to the point where I cannot receive help for things that other people would bring in a whole team of specialists to solve, and no I'm not looking for a psychiatrist or some heavy drugs to pass the time — I've heard methamphetamines are nice, though. I just need someone onto whom I can spill my secrets (reserving the closest ones, of course), someone onto whom I can lean for balance when I am tumbling, someone onto whom I can bestow my faithful trust so that I can finally dig myself out of the pit of helplessness in which I have been living for the past twenty-three years.

Edie Parker is the perfect person for that, even if she has become wary of me since I moved in with Lucien and betrayed her confidence in me somewhat, but despite that, I can understand that she wouldn't be joyous to know that Lucien had died right before our future conversation, and she would offer her wholehearted condolences, which I crave more than ever.

I already felt as though I was alone once Lucien dropped into his personal hell and neglected mine when I thought he was strong enough to discard his own and slot availability to help me, but now there's no chance that Lucien could be strong when he's dead and took the easy way out from a hard existence, though there's always the possibility that Lucien always maintained that hell of his and was simply more adept at hiding or (or didn't know it was so prominent until it began to speak to him), and, as harsh as it is to say it, Lucien was always a deceiving man, so he may have deceived himself, too. He certainly deceived me, and now he's dead, so I'm on the hunt for comfort, a comfort that can be found in the warm setting of Edie Parker and Jack Kerouac's home.