Death is, like, falling through me. I’m dying or death is dying, or something. But in me – inside of me.
I don’t have words for it, how sad I feel. And how sad sadness is. And it’s not even my sadness. It’s not selfish sadness. It’s the sadness of the world. So my Jewish modernists tell me, anyway.
The sadness is terrible, isn’t it? The way it presses down upon me, crushing me, I can’t stand it. And it’s not even mine. It’s not even about me. I mean, there’s nothing in my life that accounts for it.
I don’t feel anything. I’m just really tired all the time. Crying and crying. Because nothing connects with anything. There’s just death and death and death. That’s all.
It’s like it’s not my suicidal ideation. It’s the suicidal ideation of the age.
Oh how grand. Imagine, the Zeitgeist expresses itself through you. The Weltanschauung. Isn’t that amazing?
Work in Progress 