I can’t cry.
I can’t start.
If I cry it would be for everything.
For all of the sadness it causes itself.
I would cry at the weight of the world,
at the weight humans have given it,
and it would ruin me.
I would cry until nothing was left.
It would tear me apart at the seams.
I’d burst open
and my entire being would be annihilated
as it poured itself out onto ground it sprung from.
I can only laugh.
Laugh at the insurmountable blindness of mankind.
The boundless silliness.
Laugh at the fact that this small mind
in this limited shell
cannot cope with the immensity of the universe
and its lack of a place in it.
I can only fall deeper into the pit of madness
which everyday feels more like a stunning sobriety
as I watch myself observing the absurdity
of the society around me.
The drama of the cosmic joke of human existence,
in its limited consciousness,
has only two masks with which to observe it:
There is only the desolate oblivion of its tragedy,
and the maddening hilarity of its comedy,
and I have chosen the pain of unending laughter
over the relief of perpetual depression.