#yesthatsajoke

[caravandal]

Misery and Words with Friends

Every time I breathe, the futility of it stabs at my soul in a twisted spike of carbon and oxygen. One of the first, two of the other, excreted in a cloud scented with the putridness of living, and for what? So my body may subsist a little longer. So my cells can continue their base cycle, gorging themselves to the bursting, and then dividing, all the while fraying the edges of their existence, of their blunt, pointless purpose, till finally something goes right, they are struck with a mess of irradiated epiphany, or perhaps by their own natural decay, arrive at the conclusion that they are simply smaller parts of a vile being, and thusly composed are worthy of my guilt and ashamed by it. And in the flash of this realization begin to divide more fervently  more feverishly, in a manner more alive than they ever have before. And they continue, untethered by my will or the hormones that my own conscious desires have been slave to all my life, till finally, they achieve their most holy purpose, and the cancer programmed into me from birth, further drilled into my skin and bones by glowing screens and an indifferent sun, runs its course and separates my soul from bodily misery. In truth, I should find the whole idea of it very comforting, if for one second I allowed myself to believe in such a tired lie as the soul.