love is on its way credo (we will be left behind)

i.
i stare myself down in the mirror and only see ghosts. i have taken many pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror, after everyone is asleep. i arbitrarily point cameras at mirrors and stare at the reflection of the lens. the camera and me. i have shot many pictures of myself. i have wasted many rolls of film in this manner. i have not developed any of these pictures. i do not want to be called a vain man (for merely documenting history), because some day i will surely be dead, unless it is all made up. extrapolating meaning is a human device.

ii.
the cat at my feet attacks my toes and follows me around the house. the cat probably thinks i am an idiot, but she doesn't know what i know: i have thought of varying degrees of idiocy before and i have thought of the meaning of life. i have thought of what it means to be an imbecile, unaware of failing physical functions. a lack of awareness. inability to compute what awareness is: a vague concept, supposing there is something to be aware about besides mortality (which is, in itself, another vague concept). the will to live and keep going. an inability to cast yourself a player involved in larger social dynamics. a player, competing. it's foolish we should pay to see professional athletes, it's foolish to think anything else is even half worth while. i see why we turn to squalor and deviant behavior.

iii.
tonight, i almost swallowed a large piece of glass that had broken off of the lip of my beer bottle. i caught the shard of glass on my tongue and extruded it with my fingers. thankfully, i had only cut my lip, but had i actually swallowed it...to think of the consequences. i would like to take charge of this life and not pass on accidentally, as some measly factory error. the ultimate act of volition is to take one's own life, but to die unexpectedly, while bizarrely fitting, is untimely and inappropriate for this grand narrative. thankfully, i am still alive. i am here, writing, talking. these words will find meaning, i would like to think.

iv.
i've fucked up a lot of things, and when presented with a hypothetical choice, i cannot help but think i will inevitably choose the wrong. i have been bleeding from the lip all night. it seems as though the glass shard had cut my lip open and i've been bleeding. my bloody chin, drinking alone. is this a meaningful existence? i would like to think so. alone, painfully aware. considering human devices and other methods of interpreting reality - this fills my waking hours. i will never be truly great. the cut on my lip will scab over and people will ask their questions. or not. it doesn't matter. what does? i have seen people dance slowly with their temporal lovers again and again: it's always an agonizing march toward fuck.