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 …
to be or not
It’s a problem every day. Not the dying part, the living part. I don’t know what to do so I’ll just stand still and hope no one sees me longing to be seen. How did I get from be to not? It’ll go away. It always does, or has. One day it’ll be decided for me. Sometimes that’s a relief… cue guilt but mostly sadness.
The real bitch is that when I need it most, it’s past the point of being able to move.
Someone said everyone needs a significant other to say it’s ok. To say, I love you anyway. I believe that. Hard to ask and impossible when stuck. A warm, calm shoal. A gift.
Probably not what you were on about at all. I just needed to move a little.