These Useless Words of Mine

These useless words of mine are excrement of the finger; promptly evacuated from the vapid finger follicles to present themselves before the pupils of whoever. Spending day and night hoping for the "medicine" to take effect, and somehow be exonerated of the lack of worth by a screen and tapped fingers. Nothingness has introduced itself again and reminded me of our close acquaintance; pulled me closer, yet again, and stares me in the eyes from across each room. I want to feel and embrace my capacity, but the universe wants it not. I want to want to succeed the mundanity in daily tasks, but the cosmos suck me closer and closer to the inevitable empty nothingness that is our eventual destiny. I ache to be purged of self-doubt and worry, as the ache itself metastasizes before me into all that I fear the most. If Jesus were a being that a rational individual could believe in, I'd beg him on hand and knee to save me from the inevitable nothingness that I'm becoming. If only the world around me seemed brighter than the void that is the everything. If only this planet yielded stories and promises of heroism and enterprise worth admiring and devoting oneself to. Instead, a wasteland sits before me, in a body that understands it too is pointless. And so I scribble these useless words of mine, writing nothings into a web of nothing suffered by the eyes glazed amongst the masses.