Is there any such thing as fear of thinking? Thinkophobia? ‘Cause lately all I do is flee. From my thoughts, from myself. I turn my back on responsibility. I scowl at the things I know I should do. I try to live purely with inputs, and either make something directly from them or nothing at all. My go-to is sarcasm. Sarcasm whenever I notice what I’m doing: how could I possibly think that I could run from my own thoughts? What business do I have wanting to leave my own body for even a second? I mock myself. Making my want to get out even stronger. I love it when the rain comes. The sound of it against my window gives me something solid to focus on that isn’t me. Something that’s both visible and audible and not television. Something that’s just mine yet still just a part of the world that anyone could experience. Something that feels truly transcendental. But even now, even now with the rain against my window do I find a way to block that clearance, to clutter it all up with thoughts that bring me nothing. Thoughts that are less informative than if I could have just been handed nothing at all. Here I am wishing nothing over something. Here I am seeking a way out. I can’t stand the world. I don’t understand it and I fear I never will. And so often I just want to leave, go away, answer man’s greatest questions. So often I look around and just ask: why? Why am I reading these books? Why am I living in this house? Why do these people care or pretend to care about me? Why do I them? Why do we pretend there are some foundation in society, when all anyone is ever trying to do is to shake things up? Why do we invent? Why do we keep reproducing? Seriously, why? Is man not the most selfish creature, knowing that the world is going down the drain, knowing all the terrors, knowing that the chance for survival so far is zero, yet still we keep reproducing, still we put in new people, people we allegedly love. How can you say you love somebody and knowingly let them enter through these gates? Why do I care? Why do I care about you? Why do I care about myself? Why do I care what happens? Why not just leave? Why do I let myself think time as a resource? Why do I let society dictate when I’m wasting it and when I’m being productive with it? All we do is try to make the most of our time here. We should all just get in a roller-coaster accident at age 5 minutes and be done with it. Start and end in an instant on a high. But we didn’t and we’re still here and now we care because things and people and places but most of all memories and unknown futures are dear to us and we get sad thinking about no longer thinking about those things, thinking what will we think of then? Not realising there’s no thought once my time or your time has run out. There’s not even darkness or nothing or has-been. Only for people left behind, which we will all be, and which we keep grooming people to be; left behind. So we will be someone’s dear memory and inspiration for a future. So we will be on a wall in this world we never could comprehend. And so I still dream of dying in an apocalypse. To leave nothing and no-one behind. No memory, no picture. And so I wait hoping for it. Knowing that will be the easiest for everyone. I dream of no more suffering with no-one around not to feel it.