Nothing is ever beautiful. Occasionally I think something or someone might be beautiful but always, when my gaze is too long, the beauty subsides into normalcy. The bitter grey that I am doomed to live in.

I wonder to myself as I slam down shots, is it me? Am I sick? Or maybe, maybe I’m cursed with a gift to see things others don’t. I think quietly, so as to avoid revealing my thoughts, as I kiss her, why isn’t she as I had imagined? Why is nothing ever as beautiful as I can dream it? Why does it still taste…grey?

The snow falls in pretty little snowflakes, glimmering by the streetlamps, as if they were still touched by the light of the stars. But they aren’t. Oh no they aren’t. They dance in gusts of wind and seem to defy gravity for just a moment, but then they fall onto a dirty road and get run over by a car, not even one of the nice cars you see on TV, just an old Buick or something. What a lonely, empty, grey death that awaits us all.

I want to be beautiful, I want to be surrounded by full lips, and tiny waists, and round little bums. I want flowers and art, statues sculpted by incessant and unstoppable passion, songs written through suffering, words written as if by God. No in between, no dirty empty human vessel to tarnish it, straight from the light; from all that beauty comes from.

I can do anything and yet I’m so hopelessly bored. I don’t know how I ever used to survive before. Nothing is deep enough, or fun enough, or crazy and out there enough. It always just ends, until next time, never to be as beautiful again.

I’ve spent so much time wanting to die because of all that’s happened to me, because of my life, but now my dearest friends, I barely see a point in it. If I could be anyone, anyone else but me, I’d only want to blow my brains out even more for I’d be even less beautiful than I was. I curse the gods for making me long for all that isn’t real and simply can’t be. A condition that can only be cured by collective madness and yet I am stuck in a hopelessly sanitized world.

Woe is me.

I dream of Caligula’s vengeful genius, of Rasputin’s charismatic faith. May Dionysus take pity on us all! Pour me some wine my lord, let me feel at one with your kin, who rule over us, even as we’ve forgotten you. Apollo is a nerd, a damn yuppie. Fuck Apollo and fuck the sanity he brings. The death of beauty, Apollo is.

I miss the dirt. Today it is the rodents that are truly free. The swine who bathe in their muddy filth should lead us. But it is the robots who rule. Damn Apollo!

Women used to wear perfume, now they all smell of fruit. I won’t say I don’t like it but I long for a different scent. The mixture of creams they use, they all end up smelling the same. What a bore its all become! I day dream of armageddon, of some great war, of disease, something to wipe us out, or make it all mean something.

Either way, same diff, right bro?

God, I hate you. Perhaps that’s what happens to people like me. The hate becomes the only passion that never truly subsides. I want to squish the little insects with the same excitement that I would a child’s cheek. If armageddon will not come, then let me bring it. I want to pollute their sanitized little worlds and drive them to a madness that is wholly human. Oh my little insects, squish, squish! Oh my little insects, how happy you’ve made me.

For now and forever, I live in grey. Dionysus save me. Madness save me. I am not meant for this.