Notebook Extract 2

I talk about my last/previous suicide attempt very nonchalantly with myself
and if anyone else is to hear the tale, it shall be the same
because there really isn't very much to it
I wont say about how 'hellish' it was
or how dark everything felt, or how cold I became
nor will I say it was cool, it wasn't, it never is
I wont say it was 'hardcore' or 'brutal'
nor that it was 'savage' or 'terrifying'
nor that their was any enlightenment or desperate revelations
because their wasn't any of that, it just happened
I did it, I did many things both before and afterwards
it was a bad moment and nothing more, I reached the end of a line and chose to cross it
and at the end of it all, I woke up anyway
and I should be very grateful for this, I know I should be
but If I am to continue even a little longer
I can't allow myself to linger on such an ultimately meaningless and minute moment
it is just another piece of my reflection now, and I don't have to see it

Why do I wear this mask?
Hmm, I don't want to acknowledge existence
I don't want to be able to see the world, the same world, the same day, repeating
I don't want to look around the bus and see the young, the old, or the glass ghost of myself
student's on field trips, college kids journeying to school, people buried in ear pieces and phones
Looking out their windows, the elderly reminiscing, pointing out so much that they cherish which feels like routine. Remember walking down that street? What every fucking day of your entire life?
Urrgh, sitting at a bench makes no difference, look a lake, a swan, a tree, beautiful at times, times have passed, it's just static, everyone staring through windows adoring sights they can't feel, sights framed by plastic, moving by and repeated to us consistently, what is new today?.
I do not want to feel the air chilling my front teeth as I breathe in
I do not want the oxygen to nourish nor awaken me
I want to be nearly suffocating and oxygen deprived
half dead and sat bolt upright, hands flat on my thighs, I don't want to be touching anything.
I want to be cut off instead of getting cut up
I don't want to smell anything
piss or fresh grass, bakery's, takeaways, not these people or myself, not the flowers, not the smoke, not the petrol fumes, not weed, not alcohol, not sweat, not perfume, not aftershave, nor sea nor sewer. There is so much, too much to help confirm my place in this world, I just don't want to know that because it's always the same. I don't want to hear the tyre's, engines, screeches, buzzes, drones, children laughing, parent's shouting, teens crying, old coughing, all talking, breathing, we're all just fucking breathing, nostrils flaring and chests expanding, the sounds of clothing gently rubbing, elastic bands rubbing over the soles of paired shoes, lawnmowers, drills, planes, trains, hell automobiles, pram wheels bumping, rattles rattling, mother's gasping and nattering on the phone or too their friends, skateboards going over the cracks of pavement, workmen's tiles pattering and tapping grout back into the cracks, the crackling of plastic and lighters, the sound of rizla's rolling, baccy mixing, over-heated feasters licking, and all the rest of it, I don’t want it again
so I sit in pure darkness with eyes wide open, middle of the day, no senses, other than being slightly too hot and feeling the fraying yet overly smooth weave of the denim beneath my palms, but I’m still barely here, listening to the songs in my head, and dreaming up anything which might help me pull it back off, just to write something new before burying myself conscious again.