Human Failure || Dazai 15 angst

Yippe Dazai Angst

June 14th, 2015

I am aware that I've distanced myself from others. I do not want to be helped.

In my chest, there's a coiling snake of self-disgust; guilt, shame, and repulse. I am horrified by my past actions, though I would not call them morally corrupt, I am horrified by how carefree I was.

When I catch a lost memory by my fingertips, bile rises in my throat- the child I once was is a disfigured piece of trash in my eyes. It's disgusting- it does not deign the acknowledgment to be called something else than "it". How negligently I used to laugh, to smile, to grin- I threw these now rare expressions freely out, at every excuse I uttered, every small joke my friends snarked in my ear.

Now, I cannot scrape up enough energy with my frail fingers to sketch my cracked lips into a smirk. I am beyond help, and that is why I do not want it. No poor soul should carry the weight of my turmoil. It would be the mental equivalent to carrying a dead body, slugged over a shoulder.

I choose, unfailingly, every time, to let myself fall limp, pliant, to the will of God- if he cares enough about an unfixable humanity to exist. I let my psyche to be molded, malleable to even the most inexperienced sculptor's hand to bend my mind to their will.

Through my self-contempt, there is an overwhelming sense of consciousness behind it. I am overly aware of my flaws, now- unlike the formally youthful me.

Every cracked grin I attempt to pull, teeth too similar to the sight of a dog barring its drool-covered teeth, every laugh that sounds too much like a choking cough, how my attempts to comfort sound all too close to pity.

There's something undeniably and unbearably disgusting and repulsive about me. A passerby may come across me on the street- I have no doubt in my mind that when they are out of my plane of view, they curl their noses in disgust, metaphorical hackles rising. Even with my attempts to appear welcoming, warm- despite the coldness in my flesh, infested with apathy- mankind always senses something amiss. Something the human mind unfailingly detects, that there is something inherently wrong with every aspect of my being.

I often catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of puddles, car windows- whatever surface has the most unfortunate experience of witnessing my involuntary scowl. I feel more like a walking corpse than I do a living, breathing human.

Sometimes, I feel like my heart stops beating, and oddly, I am strangely overjoyed. I make an ugly expression, curling my lip in dissatisfaction when it was my endless miserable, embittered, nihilistic mind reaching for the unquestionable consequence to life that is death.