My Thoughts Are Pollution: Scraps From a Notebook

by Noise Pollution

I thought I’d take the time to transpose some of my inane ramblings from my various notebooks here. I often find myself writing out my feelings, and I have a lot of weird, bitter garbage scattered throughout various scraps of paper that I thought might be worth sharing. It’s going to be bits and pieces of things written over the last few years, and absolutely none of it will be in chronological order. With that warning in mind, here is some raw, random thought pollution.


It’s no use. Sleep isn’t coming. I’m not even close. I’m so easily distracted right now. Every sight and sound brings me to a state  of alertness. I’m not scared of anything right now, but I am being startled easily.

I think it’s late enough that my thoughts aren’t entirely logical right now. It’s nothing scary. I’m just tired, I think. Tired, but not sleepy. Tired of being awake. It’s exhausting, just living, sometimes.

Sometimes breathing is difficult. My throat feels so small at times. I suck in the air the best that I can, but it feels like nothing is happening. I guess that worries me. It’s not what’s keeping me awake, it’s just something I felt like mentioning.

[This next bit is from the same session of writing, but is about something completely unrelated. I’m not one for keeping things organized.]

When you don’t believe in god, you have to accept that you could die at any time. There is no hand guiding you to where you need to go, no divine light keeping you safe. when you see the world that way, when you see it for what it really is, it’s easy to get scared.

I think that’s why people are still religious in this day and age, in spite of all the evidence pointing to other answers. [Note: I have no intention of debating religion in the comments here, while I may approve a comment that brings up the topic, I absolutely will not respond in any way.] It’s easy to blame it all on ignorance, but I think that a lot of it is fear. It’s not just scary to see your own insignificance, it’s utterly terrifying. Paralyzing, even.

I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know how much it matters. I don’t know how long I have. I don’t know if I’ll ever find what I’m looking for. I don’t know if a girl exists who would both accept and be accepted by me, and if she does, I have no way of knowing if I’ll ever run into her. I don’t know if I’ll ever accomplish anything meaningful. There’s no guarantee of  anything.

The only one that can make my life meaningful is myself. If I continue to do nothing, I will die unhappy and alone.

Knowing that doesn’t fix me, though. At the end of the day, I’m still awake at four in the morning, putting words to my debilitating anxiety and depression. I’m still stuck. Knowing the reason why I’m stuck doesn’t make things any easier. I still can’t get out of bed in the mornings.


 

I wish I was a little bit more talented. I wish I was a good enough guitarist to wow people. I wish I could write well enough to make money off of it.

Wishing doesn’t get me anywhere. The only thing I can do to change things is… you know, do things.

I don’t know how to improve at guitar. I practice every single day, but there doesn’t seem to be a positive change in my abilities. I feel like it’s useless to try. Still, I don’t want to stop. The few times that I ever feel good are when I’m playing music. I guess that’s what I should focus on. I play music because I like to, not to impress people, not to arbitrarily define myself as a “musician.” It’s really easy to lose sight of that, though.

As for my writing, there’s nothing I can really do aside from writing and reading more. I have no way of knowing if I’m even halfway decent, though. Everything I write sounds good to me, but that’s  only because I know exactly how my inflection sounds, and every little pause and tonal change is obvious to me. Well, there’s no way in hell I’m letting anyone else read my writing. [Ha! Irony!] I don’t have the spine to handle whatever blows my pride would be dealt.


 

I don’t know why I’m still broken up about the breakup. It’s been five months now, [ten as of this rewrite] you’d think I wouldn’t give a shit anymore.

The thing is, I don’t think that I do give a shit anymore. At least, not about her. Nothing that happens in her life matters to me in the slightest. I think I’m just incapable of dealing with being alone. But blah blah blah, nobody wants to be alone, right?

[To be clear, the girl in question is Gnat, from my earlier post.]

I think that without someone who adores me, I have a hard time feeling like I have a reason to exist. I think I desire romance out of a need for validation more than anything else. I guess there’s a bit more to it, though. I love the idea of chivalry and somehow being a Prince Charming, but that’s not reality. That doesn’t exist. I don’t know what I want that actually exists. I don’t know how to be happy without pretending I’m someone else, somewhere else.


 

I want a cigarette.


 

Something I’ve learned from my nightmares is that I’m quite capable of conjuring up horrific images without the aid of outside media. Who needs horror films when you’ve got a brain like mine?


[One more, I think. I’ll post others later.]

My dreams last night… were fucking disturbing. I don’t want to go into the first one, even here, that’s how uncomfortable I am with it. [Something about being forced to marry my older stepsister. Fucking creeped me out upon waking. I can say something about it now that I’m slightly removed from it, but still, holy shit, that was creepy.] The second one was actually fine, relatively speaking, but it showed that an obsession I had was seeded deeper than I thought.

I feel like a fucking idiot. I was actually happy during those dreams. [Please don’t judge.] Like, happier than I’ve been while awake in over a year. I don’t wish for them to be a reality, at least not the way they were, but something similar would be nice. [As in, marrying anyone else. The second dream, I should reiterate, was not so bad.]

I really just want affection. It’s pretty pathetic, and I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I have it again. I’m going to keep on wishing and dreaming. That’s all I’m really capable of. I’m pretty useless.


 

As it turns out, I’ve got a lot more of these than I thought. Consider this a part one of learning too much about me and being deeply disturbed by my once-private thoughts.

 

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