Retching Monologue

Basking in the hellfire, there I lay guzzling a venomous cask, drenched in pangs of sorrow and grief, all too aware that an end was coming.
But there I stayed, immobile and unyielding—cemented in place by an unwavering propensity for sentimentalism. What I was is who I am, and as the cycles of time turn in their predictable paths, a clog comprised mostly of a yearning for what never was threatened to disrupt this natural order. But still I stayed there, slumped in place—a man with purpose, a man with motivation.
What kept me there? Steadily regressing back to where I started. What is it that can force a man who sees his bleak end to sow and nurse the wretched seeds from where his demise stems? Could fear be a strong enough force to halt the clear sighted?
Some drink away the pain. Others douse themselves in
It is now what cannot be. But as another bottle clatters to the floor, there is a feeling still there—not of hope, not of promise—a retching in the gut, a product of unease, a desperation to know whether the world I’d seen rise around me for so long was indeed the very one now rushing past me. So I grasp, I pray, I do all I can see it clearer, to hold it once more within my hands. I claw and, like a mist, it evades. Like a cloud it envelops me, its density suffocating, tightening in my throat, making sight impossible.
I am a broken man with broken dreams, both blessed and cursed with clarity. I pity those who cannot see. This life, this world, it always moves in sporadic motions, but in the end, always around. This world it spins and we go nowhere. They run, they writhe, and all for not. We have made a hell and here, in the world we made, our future rots, decomposes down to struggle and death. There is more to see and more to do. There is a life outside our deformed visions. Avert your eyes from this perverted creation. Choose a life away from the