text: I want to speak but I’m no longer sure there’s anything to say. Every thought in my head, every movement of my lips, every word that comes out has all been said. I am tired. I am so fucking tired. All I want is to rest my fucking eyes but there is stilling something I need to say and I can’t fucking figure out what the fuck it is. I just want to rest. There must be something left unsaid or maybe I have not yet heard someone else say it and so I think that person needs to be me. But all that enters my mind are thoughts stitched together from a million other ideas others have said and I can’t hide the stitching. I want to rest. I am so very tired. But it still has to be said. Maybe there is nothing. Maybe I have been convinced that I have something to say. That in me there is a voice that is not the echo of those who stood before me. Still I must speak. If I don’t then I can not rest. I can not sleep. I wonder if they see it in my eyes. Do they see the bags and the lines? Do they see the ache of my bones? Do they see the belt married to my neck or the bottle in my hand when my face falls below the surface. I am angry. I am so fucking angry because I jsut want to sleep but they won’t let me do that simple fucking thing because I still have something to say. But God I don’t fucking know what that is. I know that one day I will die because I killed myself. It will not me today and it probably will not be tomorrow. But I have begun to fear that I will never rest and God I am so tired. I have heard of respite in the arms of another but I have felt none. I have lied to those that have held me but I can not speak the truth to them. I want them to sleep. To not feel tired. To feel as I do. But I fear I bring this disease on them. I have been told to give up on finding something to say so that I might find rest in this flesh but I can only pretend to have done so. My soul tugs at me to open my mouth and to speak. It sits there and it claws and it tears away at my sanity until I blurt out nonsense to feel relief. Like a man under the blade I lie and blabber and falsify so that I might have some rest. I let it all free and I breathe. For a moment. But they look at me and tell me I still have to say something. I want to be free. I want to break the fetters of my predecessors in thought and culture and family have placed on me because I can’t stand to keep fucking lying. Where are the words? I fear there are none. I fear that I must find what is to be said deeper inside of myself where there is no language but when there is no language what is to be said. Damn the bastards who have set the precedents of culture and thought and language and desire and duty upon me. All I have ever wanted was to rest but my whore of a mother decided there was to be none. Not for me. She was so damn kind. She would not let harm befall her child and yet she left us defenseless to be preyed upon by that damn bastard. But all he did was what every man does. That stupidity reeks and I will never be released on its stench. And I am angry. I am tired. The bastard son, I stand as a scarecrow. Zeno thinks well of the strawman. But the wind tears away at the cloth and the rain sets stains below my eyes and time rots the wood that holds me up. My hands and feet have not been nailed but lashed by the words of those before me. I am tired. I want to rest. But still something must be said. My throat is sore. There is no respite for me.