Sometimes it seems just so much easier to die.
I am guilty of what others did.
I am guilty of what others didn’t do.
I am guilty of what I never intended to say and never said, but what others thought I meant.
I am guilty of not understanding how very guilty I am.
I am a source of unpleasantness that increases in unpleasantness the more I fail to comprehend that others find me unpleasant because they thought I meant something I did not mean, and find any attempt to explain the misunderstanding as, of course, unpleasant.
It makes no never mind how I feel or what I did, and any suggestion that any of the foregoing is true, is of course, evidence of my guilt.
I don’t relish hanging. Nor death by Covid19, come to think of that. But as I slowly disappear, sometimes I wonder if the process can be simply hastened.
“If you only calmed down!!!”
If I only wasn’t …