I've come to realize that I cannot feel anything without attatching something that makes me feel that way. What is love without something to love? What is hate without something to despise? What is to laugh without something humorous? If we are alone, which lately I feel that I am without a doubt, how can we feel anything? How can we know what touch is without something we feel? I feel numb. I feel dead to the world. I feel as though my existence has been slowly draining the life from me and now I'm running out of energy to fend it off. I feel as though the more people I meet, the less I really know. The more things I touch the less I really feel. I have come to the realization that there is no one left that is worth caring about, not even myself. We all shit, and we all get shit on. That seems to be the way the cold, godless world has decided life should be. The more time that I waste, the more I realize that I am the waste of time. The more alive I feel, only reminds me of how much I am dying. Maybe death longs for me. Another gift to the ground, another decaying substance. Isn't that what we all are? We are dying from the day we are born. Our life is just the clock counting down to the day when we will be dead again. We all seem to be trash in the same garbage heap, waiting to be decomposed. We cling to eachother like parasites, in some delusion that our binding would pass us to immortality. We all want to keep on existing, keep on feeding on the planet that we are slowly destroying. We try our best to demolish whatever small plot of earth we can. We try to take in as much as we can, feeding on the death of our world. It makes me sad to know that as much as I hold on to what I have now, as much as I earn, as muc has I take from everything, I am actually killing the only things that cling to. Slowly, we drain whatever we can until we die and can no longer suck life from our environment. Is that the meaning of life? To consume as much as we can before we are ourselves consumed. Maybe we are already dead. Maybe our consumption, our love of feeding, is just an illusion. Maybe the dellusion of meaning that we have all bought into is just our dreams in our eternal sleep. Maybe what we see, what we think we know is just an echo of the life we've already lived. Maybe our true bodies are lying somewhere decaying, being consumed, while we dream that what we do actually matters. Maybe this is heaven, maybe this is hell. Maybe its neither. Maybe we used to be Gods and now our dreams are just reflecting our forgotten powers through our nearly braindead skulls. Maybe we are just waiting for our energy to deplete before we actually cease to exist. Or maybe I'm full of drunk and full of shit. Maybe I don't even know when I'm bullshitting anymore. Maybe nothing matters. Maybe no one cares. Maybe I shouldn't.