Originally hand written in July 2015
Late Spring of 2014.
Just Months before liver failure
Our eyes are nearly always cast downward.
The crumpled cigarettes smoked done to the filter, the carelessly tossed beer cans, the stains on the sidewalk...
Could that be piss? Yes. Yes it is. It's close enough to that fucking alcove.
Damn it, my body is weak.
I drag my useless form with the strap of my backpack clenched in one hand and my drink in the other.
I kick my coat over and sit on it in a fairly futile attempt to ease the harsh discomfort of the sidewalk, another attempt to rest.
I hear the click, clank thud of high heels strutting towards me and I do not dare look up.
I know what I'll see. I know how I appear, and more importantly, I know how I feel.
Besides, I want for nothing at this moment save some privacy.
Privacy is one luxury I can not afford nor have I figured out how to obtain.
I have no need to beg or lie, not right now... Thank the gods.
I know what I'll see. I know how I appear, and more importantly, I know how I feel.
Besides, I want for nothing at this moment save some privacy.
Privacy is one luxury I can not afford nor have I figured out how to obtain.
I have no need to beg or lie, not right now... Thank the gods.
I dig into my bag and my hands roam about until I feel the familiar rectangular thin paperback.
I Pull out my copy of "Existentialism is a Humanism"
I had stolen from Barnes and Noble a few days back so I could read it again.
I was curious if in the years that have come to pass, that I might see or understand something that had eluded me the last time I read it.
Years before I came to be in this degradation.
I began to read, curled up, making myself as invisible as the great many 'they' desire us to be.
With one poison within reach and waiting for the other to return to me.
Waiting for the peace I knew would not come.
The Line that haunted me was "Man is condemned to be free..."
I already knew this, I had for a very long time and I still believed it.
Despite my impoverishment and seeming uselessness.
No. It's all mixed up.
I do not loath the 'click, clank, thud' of the millions of people that walk past me and my kind.
Each and everyday, making their assumptions and passing out Judgement.
I loath no one but myself alone. So much more now, more than ever.
Why now?
After reading those words and seeing my dirty hands clench the pages.
I chose not to throw my poison upon the littered concrete to join the other's drained of their essence. The bottles drained of their essence. Just as empty as those who chose to drain them.
This is cowardice. This I loath.
No.
I did not allow myself to be rid of my condemnation.
I chose not to grasp what little freedom I had left.
I did nothing to pull myself out of my blight.
In all my self loathing cowardice, I put my dry lips around the mouth of the bottle.
I tilted it back and swallowed until I had to stop to breathe.
I placed that putrid liquid noose back down.
I looked again at my beloved Sartre, once my refuge and anthem.
Now my torture, yet still my truth.
My only life support.
I held the tears that had nearly excreted from my eyes.
Not because of shame or it's like.
I kept them in because I knew I could at least exert control over that.
As seemingly insignificant it may seem.
Besides, I could not read with tears obstructing my vision.
Mary Catherine Cowardice Queen
I Pull out my copy of "Existentialism is a Humanism"
I had stolen from Barnes and Noble a few days back so I could read it again.
I was curious if in the years that have come to pass, that I might see or understand something that had eluded me the last time I read it.
Years before I came to be in this degradation.
I began to read, curled up, making myself as invisible as the great many 'they' desire us to be.
With one poison within reach and waiting for the other to return to me.
Waiting for the peace I knew would not come.
The Line that haunted me was "Man is condemned to be free..."
I already knew this, I had for a very long time and I still believed it.
Despite my impoverishment and seeming uselessness.
No. It's all mixed up.
I do not loath the 'click, clank, thud' of the millions of people that walk past me and my kind.
Each and everyday, making their assumptions and passing out Judgement.
I loath no one but myself alone. So much more now, more than ever.
Why now?
After reading those words and seeing my dirty hands clench the pages.
I chose not to throw my poison upon the littered concrete to join the other's drained of their essence. The bottles drained of their essence. Just as empty as those who chose to drain them.
This is cowardice. This I loath.
No.
I did not allow myself to be rid of my condemnation.
I chose not to grasp what little freedom I had left.
I did nothing to pull myself out of my blight.
In all my self loathing cowardice, I put my dry lips around the mouth of the bottle.
I tilted it back and swallowed until I had to stop to breathe.
I placed that putrid liquid noose back down.
I looked again at my beloved Sartre, once my refuge and anthem.
Now my torture, yet still my truth.
My only life support.
I held the tears that had nearly excreted from my eyes.
Not because of shame or it's like.
I kept them in because I knew I could at least exert control over that.
As seemingly insignificant it may seem.
Besides, I could not read with tears obstructing my vision.
Mary Catherine Cowardice Queen
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