Coma(The Shell)

Ninety-Three, ninety-three is the number of pill bottles setting on my window sill. Some are laying, some stand, others rest on the floor, all are empty. In all, I’ve put 1,860 pills down my throat. I could spend the rest of my life trying to count the ounces of liquor I’ve poured down my gut. I can’t stand it when the word “stomach” is replaced by “gut”, but I’m doing a lot of things I hate at present. I could also spend the rest of my very limited life counting how much medicine was pumped into my veins. Although I could spend very little time telling you how much of it worked, none. And that is exactly what I amount to. By the way, I loathe Arithmetic, I loathe it with all one-hundred and forty-one words in this paragraph; including these.

I have not a single reason to write these words, at least none that are good. But not truthfully. I’m really writing this so that I can create something, instead of failing to repair what wasn’t broken. Ultimately by attempting to fix what wasn’t damaged only breaks it more, hence the need for repair. At least that’s what I can make out of it. I suppose it doesn’t matter who I am does it? I’m not good enough to write it, and your certainly too important enough to read it, but I’m afraid this is all there is for you to read.

You’re misfortune of having to read this is merely a byproduct(or that which creates it) a byproduct that is the beautiful yoke of an ugly shell. I suppose this is the only importance of my own existence., to create beauty. At least it’s rumored to be beautiful, I can only hope that it is. Within me, is something implausible. Something so immaculate it is nearly impossible to fathom But alas what is of mine, becomes tainted, altered and destroyed. Therefore to preserve it’s sanctity, the divinity must remain hidden.

As I write these words, another set of longer, more sentimental, and better crafted parables are being written. On dark nights, in my unending loneliness, I write. I write this, and more. As I write my sordid tragedies, something shifts, and enacts itself beneath me. The shadows of my arms, and legs grow. The shape of my silhouette quakes. The other man’s hands begin to write, they write inconceivable volumes of glimmering texts upon the walls, and the ceiling. Texts that at this very moment bring me to tears in their faultlessness. The carvings are then bound into the deepest corridors of my mind. For no one to ever read but me. So no, I am not anyone of any significance to you, I am only a shell.