Only mad ravings that don't do a fucking thing for my depression. It's all pervading.
I could go on.
Hell awaits.
Why bother?
There's a release in writing, but everything is so very wrong right now.
I await the next telepathic conversation on the edge of my seat. The voices are the only interesting thing I ever hear. Everyone else is so very full of shit. No one around me even believes in hell. I'm so sick of their optimism that I want to hurt them with the truth, but they're too fucking stupid to read the writing on the wall.
Sorry. I'm not sorry if that includes you. If you don't believe in Jesus Christ or the book of revelation then I can't wake you up, but it is coming and soon. Within my lifetime I am certain it will be here and the anticipation of that trumpet blast should have you on your knees begging like I was, but you just call me a lunatic with a chemical imbalance or tell me that Jesus will forgive me. I don't feel bad about wanting to bludgeon you with the truth. You are part of the problem.
Fuck you.
Get some knowledge and understanding.
Pray to God if it's not already too late.
It will be soon.
Catharsis.
Did it feel good to get that off my chest?
Nope.
Only more bitterness.
I want you to get angry. I want you to tell me I deserve it. I need to hear those words. Not constant optimism, not cheery eyed souls telling me that I'm not that bad of a person, that all will be well in time.
Time.
I have a lot of it.
The vastness of infinity to rub your nose in it that I was right and you were wrong. I hope I have time for a laugh in hell between the weeping and gnashing of teeth because you're a joke.
A cosmically cruel jester trying to cure my despair with utter foolishness.
That's all for now. Good talk. Let's do it again soon.
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