Venting Truth will mess you up

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There is a piece of information in my therapist's file which might make me kill myself. My exact IQ score.(I know that IQ tests are unreliable, but their results are still very correlated with intelligence)

Thing is, I have been delusional. I had been abused pretty badly throughout my childhood, but I've always been "hopelessly optimistic". I have still not experienced anything in life. Friendship, love, belonging. I have seen those things happening to other people, from a distance. I am the observer.

The only redeeming factor I had was that I was somewhat intelligent. Naive and delusional 14 year old me chose to make that my Raison d'etre. I deluded myself into thinking that I was special. That I would be able to make a change. That I was not another drop of oil lubricating the gears of the machine.

The truth is that the machine doesn't care. Even if I could rebel, it would be utterly insignificant. And I am way too incompetent to get anything done in the first place.


Now back to my IQ. I have seen some actual smart people, and I have seen how capable they are. I am totally unlike them. I have no idea what is going on. I can't think like them. I can't think. Ful Stop. I won't be able to break the boundaries of human cognition. All of it has been a ruse, something I conjured up to make me feel special. To give me a reason not to kill myself. But it was just a lie, just a lie, I should have killed myself. Because it wouldn't have made a difference. Because I wouldn't make a difference.

I was told that it was high, I would say that it's probably in the 120ish range. But that's not enough. I know that I sound pretentious, me saying that it's low and all, but my entire will to live was based on this thing. I am smart enough to recognise my own issues, but I am not smart enough to fix them. I will never have an original though or idea or action, because they all have already been though of, by people far more intelligent than me. I was never one among them, and never will be.

You are not dead and you are no wiser.
You have not exposed your eyes to the suns burning rays.
The two tenth-rate old actors have not come to fetch you, hugging you so tightly
that you formed a unity which would have brought all three of you down together had one of you knocked out.
The merciful volcanoes have paid you no heed.
Your mother had not put your new second-hand clothes in order.
You are not going to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience
and forge in the smithy of your soul the uncreated conscience of your race.
No old father, no old artificer will stand you now and ever in good stead.
You have learnt nothing, except that solitude teaches you nothing, except that indifference teaches you nothing:
You were along and you wanted to burn the bridges between you and the world.
But you are such a negligble speck, and the world is such a big word:
to walk a few kilometres past facades, shopfronts, parks and embankments.
Indifference is futile.
Your refusal is futile.
Your neutrality is meaningless.
You believe that you are just passing by, walking down the avenues, drifting through the city, dogging the footsteps of the crowd, penetrating the play of shadows and cracks.
But nothing has happened:
no miracle, no explosion.
With each passing day your patience has worn thinner.
Time would have to stand still, but no-one has the strength to fight against time.
You may have cheated, snitching a few crumbs, a few seconds:
but the bells of Saint-Roch, the changing traffic lights at the intersection between Rue des Pyramids and Rue Saint-Honore, the predictable drop from the tap on the landing, never ceased to signal the hours, minutes, the days and the seasons.
For a long time you constructed sanctuaries, and destroyed them:
order or in inaction.
drifting or sleep, the night patrols, the neutral moments, the flight of shadows and light.
Perhaps for a long time yet you could continue to lie to yourself, deadening your senses.
But the game is over.
The world has stirred and you have not changed.
Indifference has not made you any different.
You are not dead. You have not gone mad.
There is no curse hanging over you.
There is no tribulation in store for you, there is no crow with sinister designs on your eyeballs, no vulture has been assigned the indigestible chore of tucking into your liver morning, noon, and night.
No-one is condemning you, and you have committed no offence.
Time, which see to everything, has provided the solution, despite yourself.
Time, that knows the answer, has continued to flow.
It is on a day like this one, a little later, a little earlier, that everything starts again, that everything starts, that everything continues.
Stop talking like a man in a dream.
Look!
Look at them.
They are thousands upon thousands, posted like silent sentinels by the river, along the embankments, all over the rain-washed pavements of Place Clichy, mortal men fixed in ocean reveries, waiting for the sea-spray, for the breaking waves, for the raucous cries of the sea-birds.
No, you are not the nameless master of the world, the one on whom history had lost its hold, the one who no longer felt the rain falling, who did not see the approach of night.
You are no longer inaccessible, the limpid, the transparent one.
You are afraid, you are waiting.
You are waiting, on Place Clichy, for the rain to stop falling.