I, an insomniac, am compelled to refuse many things.
I refuse to live in this intolerable mess of a world.
I refuse to die, as I would be giving in to myself and my nature.
I refuse to love others, knowing that they will inevitably disappoint me.
I refuse to hate others, seeing this as a kind of bigotry that must not be allowed to control me.
I refuse to go on - I am not up to this task of unending maintenance and cyclical thinking - I am worn out.
I refuse to refrain from going on, as it would please too many of those I wish to displease - I will tap out a message of unrest indefinitely.
I will contradict myself always.
My refusal to sleep is perhaps the most frustrating issue at hand. I have found myself caught up (again) in a strange state of excitement, both anxious and anticipatory.
If I close my eyes, I will wake in a few hours and the stress of enduring the coming minutes will seem as nothing… and the temptation to simply remain conscious is a hard thing to ignore, as I cannot bear to think that I might oversleep and be deprived of the minor triumph over nature that is waking before dawn.
Would it be a greater triumph to circumvent the notion of sleep and exist in a constant stream of conscious thought? Other refusals seem pertinent.
I refuse to participate in the self-absorption of others, as this is a pastime both distressing and completely unfulfilling on my part.
I refuse to condone self-depreciation, even though I fully intend to continue depreciating myself. (My favorite game to play, being a self-absorbed megalomaniacal narcissist)
I refuse to be wrong, even if this means contradicting myself. I am at conflict with myself here, attempting to portray both the starving artist and the decadent consumer in one misshapen package.
My refusal is not to be taken seriously. I believe in what I perceive only half-heartedly. I am a reluctant skeptic.
I refuse to excuse myself from this dualistic little rant on the basis that I need sleep.
I refuse to now deny the truth of what I have said, even if I should later recant upon it.
I refuse to continue writing this, as I have almost undoubtedly proven myself to be a fool by allowing my angst to be expressed - even if this is catharsis.