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 …

.