Postscript of the Unimaginative

After a while life just starts to feel like a prison. You work your ass off in hopes to get back time lost with good behavior, but it is useless. Things will never be like how they were. Things will never be how it was when we were young. Life drags on as one long prison sentence that never ends and the only thing we are guilty of is being born. Try and fight at the restraints. Try as hard as you want and that is all you are doing is fighting. The advantage of the simple minded is that they aren’t fighting. They don’t need to fight. Can’t see the restraints, can’t feel them, they have no idea that they are there. They live in another world built into this one. The one we always wanted to be part of but somehow knew better. The chains aren’t real, but they are heavy as hell. A crippling burden we care as we walk among them. Breathe the air that they breathe. We talk as if though we don’t know. We know more than we should.

I wash my hands so I can eat. I wash the grime and filth of the world from the hairline cracks of my broken hands. No matter how much I scrub, I bleach, I strip away I know that it is still there with me. Buried in my pours the toxins never leave. I’m smarter and better than this, but I was born into this, the American dream. Swallow all the lies like pills and you begin to see that those pills to make you better are nothing more than lies. Anti-depressants pressed against the roof of our mouths, feel better? I know that I don’t. I try to forget, but I know that I already know.

I’m told that I need them. Told without them I am crazy. They say it nicer. They say it like it fucking matters. Damaged is what they mean to say. That’s not PC. That’s not okay. They don’t fucking work and I punch another hole in the wall. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It only feels like me. I’m having an episode as they say. This is normal. Is it? Is this endless feeling normal? I was unaware of how normal I am. Tell me how all of this is okay while giving me another pill to make me better. I’m broken not stupid. Too many years of feeling like this tells me it doesn’t work. The balance, the chemicals, the whatever the fuck is who I am. The taste of it all is making me sick. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Some of us have it worse. But what is worse inside your head?

3 thoughts on “Postscript of the Unimaginative”

  1. My son was put on some kind of pills that did more harm than good. He was 11, and I took him off them, never went back to the doc. He recovered on his own, with natural remedies, like essential oils.


  2. Heart ripping gut wrenching bleed of a post here. It tore some slices out of my lips which are now sore and need some TLC.
    I’m guessing this is a character but it’s also not. The lines often merge.
    Sometimes I wish I was stupid and switched off, things would be a lot easier, quieter.
    What is Worse inside your head? Fuck knows.
    A wise and beautiful person once told me we have to take one day at time, do our best, find a balance . He’s very smart and insightful. I like him a lot


  3. “The chains aren’t real, but they are heavy as hell.” This line is the truest of them all, man… the chains we put on ourselves, or allow to be put on ourselves. Hard to break, hard to shake off, hard to carry.


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