[See end of post for image credit]<\/p>\n
Since I was old enough to know myself I\u2019ve been thinking it over again, You know what I mean. You know and banalified now, despair, Here\u2019s mine: that if I prove enough the accident happens, stretched out feel what I felt. So I try again \u2013 Zone out the muzak. Focus. Try We\u2019re all utterly alone, but we\u2019re wait for something to happen no prophet. No-one can grant us only to then prove true. Time, running pure gradient in wind and rain, back to that time and again, when the alright. Someone once called you Since I was old enough to know myself
\nTo David Foster Wallace\u00a0\u00a0 by Ben Wilkinson
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve been trying to figure it out \u2013
\nthe constant gnawing sense of having
\nhad and lost some infinite thing,
\nlike half the time I\u2019d chuck it all in;
\nthrow the whole lot for a song.<\/p>\n
\nbut more than that \u2013 it\u2019s always there
\nthough you can dupe yourself into
\nthinking it\u2019s not, but dupe<\/em> is wrong:
\nit’s good as gone just so long
\nas I keep on, know that it\u2019s waiting.<\/p>\n
\nlike you knew what everyone with an ounce
\nof self-reflection feels or will feel,
\ncan’t put into words \u2013 my chest
\nbumps like a dryer with shoes in it.
\nI feel despair. The word\u2019s overused<\/p>\n
\nbut it\u2019s a serious word and we\u2019re using it
\nseriously. It\u2019s not desiring the fall;
\nit\u2019s fearing the flames. It takes
\ngreat personal courage to appear weak.
\nWe all worship some hidden belief.<\/p>\n
\nto myself I might stop and think
\ndeep down, I\u2019m not a piece of shit.
\nGet it? No punchline, just this sick
\ninertia turning in the stomach,
\nlike the moment before<\/p>\n
\nindefinitely. Diluted panic:
\ndissolve one part into five parts
\nexcuse for a human being.
\nBrief interviews with hopeless men.
\nThat\u2019s shit: I can\u2019t make you<\/p>\n
\nstuck after work in some queue,
\nlike you, like all of us going about
\nthe tedium that strings our lives
\ntogether: paperchain people,
\nbaskets lined under strip-lights.<\/p>\n
\nto ease the unpindownable feeling
\nof hopelessness, hard frustration:
\nchoose to see this moment
\nas radiant within the cosmos,
\nor bring another interpretation.<\/p>\n
\nutterly alone in this together.
\nTotal and particulate as weather,
\nthis queue shares its riffs
\non all our dreams and nightmares
\nwith each other, though all of us<\/p>\n
\nas if we aren\u2019t part of it, hurrying
\non to somewhere else. David,
\ndays I\u2019m up to here with this bullshit.
\nI know I\u2019m not the only one.
\nYou\u2019re long gone, and anyway<\/p>\n
\nthe will, patience or grace to go on;
\nleast of all the self-loathing, cut-up
\nfool I\u2019ve become, or always was.
\nTime waits for no man \u2013
\na platitude you\u2019d have ridiculed<\/p>\n
\nas the poet said, licks its steady way
\nthrough stone \u2013 though it can stand
\nstill, if you really want it to.
\nTo which: if you buy that, you\u2019ll buy
\nanything. But I remember<\/p>\n
\nmy breath dogged on the fellside
\nonly to round a corner into a peace
\nI\u2019d never known awake: just the sound
\nof my bolting heartbeat, as rippled
\nsunlight carried across the tarn. I go<\/p>\n
\nlistless dark starts to creep in. But I sound
\nlike I\u2019m preaching, and that\u2019s not what
\nI meant \u2013 your smarts always came
\nwithout the pious crap. You never know
\nwhen it\u2019s coming, and that\u2019s the kicker<\/p>\n
\nthe voice of your generation; I\u2019ll buy that,
\neven though you\u2019d shrug it off. This is all
\nwe\u2019ve got. I hit my thirties still hoping
\nagainst hope I can turn meagre words
\ninto actions. Wish me way more than luck.<\/p>\n\n
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\nI\u2019ve been trying to figure it out \u2013
\nthe constant gnawing sense of having
\nhad and lost some infinite thing,<\/p>\n\n
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