The End

Reads: 242  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Inside the mind of human who's only constant is the change from one state to the next. Here lies the deep sorrowful depression of full realization.

Submitted: April 21, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 21, 2014

A A A

A A A


The cum filled tissue rests on the depleting member as the daily release of agonizing stress is released via bodily fluid. If there is a God he created a glorious mechanism for stress release but in the most selfish fashion. Self-indulgence tends to branch off of acts such as this. My realization that every possible interaction done by humans with one another is purely selfish; every act done is an act to advance one’s self not to necessarily help others even though that may have taken place. Pure boredom of life has contained me since this and no longer does the excitement of a red bike on Christmas take me to new heights of ecstasy. Better get up there is no time to waste if I just lay here my possibility of getting trashed diminishes to zero. Still have yet to train my dog to fetch me a cold bottle form the fridge. This is my daily exercise for today. Now a days a stocked fridge is the only excitement I have along with the little hope I have for the human race. Shit, humanity is no longer a word in the dictionary any more. 

The pure selfishness that humans have creates a power hungry society aimed towards killing one another over meaningless shit. They wonder why the great ones drink and use drugs to such a degree that is almost a staggering feat when they wake up the next morning and this is my intent of the day. An enlightment has filled my curious mind into our existence in regards to the case that no one gives a fuck about who you are unless you help them out. I guess that’s why almost all great contributors in the arts release themselves through their work by having a creative juice influenced by the drugs they consume.  Changes in my biochemistry since experimentation with mind altering substances have been beneficial. 

Doing nothing is what it is… doing nothing. No sensory input but the cold beer easing the inners of the esophagus while the three pills of Adderall flow down and interrupt any sort of organized thought that was intended to occur that day. Such a depressing way to live it is, but when faced with the mere terms with the fact that there is no hope how else can one cope. Friends and family are just a selfish outcome on the social development of a human. A “what have you done for me lately” attitude takes place soon after childhood. You silly fucking trolls who question “well that’s not true a parents love is unconditional”. This may be true, but in response why do parents just happen to conveniently get divorced when the kids reach age ten or so. These innocent developing humans have only been aware for a few years now and can’t help that their curiosity of life overpowers their childish innocence.

Lighting up the early morning bowl of pot enhances my reflection on this subject. I make my transmitter with the divine much more in tune when the influence of substances takes place. No helping me now…minutes have passed and a boredom seeps in. another beer seems to be suffice, but beer just won’t do the trick. No, that won’t be enough to get me there. Sitting atop my fridge lays the Holy Grail in drugs. For all of human’s questions of existence just look no further than cocaine. There is no explanation for the occurrence of such an enhancing drug interacting with the neurons of the mind. A snort here and a snort there won’t do shit for me. Even this self-indulgence has two sides to the coin. One I am not contributing anything except for the thoughts that pop into my head that may be considered creative depending on your unworthy opinion. Or two, a more humbling outlook, at least I am not bothering anybody with my filth. 

Realization of existence has to be done on one’s own account and it’s no one’s responsibility but their own. Line upon line reaches the deep confines of what is now after years, my hairless nostrils. After all the years of dong blow, alcohol, and all the other shit one would think death would have opened the door. It has been knocking for quite some time, but with each expected rush in adrenaline is a slight hope of a blood infused rage that the heart can’t handle. The responsibility of this knowledge being passed down through a medium of drugged out consciousness has become another entity in me over time. No longer is it fun fucking with people about their silly little lives and the importance they hold to minute issues that are made up by humans for a contribution to society. I can see the bluish veins on my forearm pop out and can be felt like a mountainous range on a topography map. 

Toady might be the day where the loneliness is over, I think the end is near. Some have been so consumed by death that the end has been suggested as the only friend. Being a follower to this dogma has torn me in various little pieces. The very idea is created by humans who have been influenced by a selfish society that is a production of the true nature of humans. Hope is near.


© Copyright 2019 Ed Hart. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Literary Fiction Short Stories