Death. Life. Recycle.

It’s been 6 days since you left me.  Every day is something different.  Either I’m like the roadkill that keeps collecting on speeding tires, or I forget who I am.  You don’t look so happy yourself, either.  But eventually, we’ll fall out of love with each other completely.  The thought of that sends slightly panicking nudges to my spine, but then I also try to iterate to my soul, “that fucker will be out of your life.”

I’m still mad.  You chose someone who wasn’t me.  For whatever reason.  It’s easier for me to think you were just too afraid to leave your comfortable life behind.  But then, if it was so fucking comfortable, why did you come over so often? 

I hate you.  I love you.  I’m all over the place.  Like roadkill. 

You know it’s over when..

..your life has become less livable than his.  Or, you contemplate vengeance on him by killing yourself, because he’ll never forget that he was the root cause of your misery from that.  Sure, he’ll try to find other excuses for why you did what you did, but he’ll know, deep down inside, he could have prevented it.

I can’t stop you from making more mistakes.  From being weak.  From giving into your fears and inability to deal with reality.  I cannot change you.  I wonder what I’m supposed to be doing.  When I’m being myself, who wants this?

Not you.  And not that other guy.  Or that other guy.  Or the guy before him.  Nor the other.  In conclusion, no one really wants this.  It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked to be my best, it’s never enough.  It’s never the answer to the same question I’ve had of what makes life worth living.  And I know that I exceed the dreams of any man who could possibly have me, and yet, these men are so disabled from being their real selves.  I cannot fix that.  And I feel like I’ll always be alone.

I always believed that I would die earlier than the age at which I would be “getting old.”  I thought of that as somewhere in my 30s.  Now, with the prospect of kidney issues looming in the distance, I will have more nights, alone, with my poor health, searching for inspiration that keeps me clinging to this one and only opportunity to live.

I don’t know, anymore.  I don’t know if I can fake that, anymore.  This life feels like it should be worth living, and most of the times, I really believed that.  But now, I am uncertain, because I don’t fit in.  People remember good things about me that make them happy, but that only goes so far.  It’s the real me they can’t handle.

I will kill myself.  It’s just a matter of when.  How.  And making sure I get it right.  It will be a glorious experience for me - where I don’t know a damn thing, and it’s within my control.  When I have enough reasons, and I’ve been in pain enough, I’m scared enough, I’m in poor-enough health - I will find a way to leave this world with as much of the memories as I could give the people who wanted them.  I don’t want to live much longer than is necessary. 

I will call you, when it’s about to happen.  I’ll leave you voicemail, so you know it’s really me.  Maybe I’ll even leave a note.  I’ll leave a lot of notes. 

I was a very troubled girl.  I had a deathwish tailing me for the better part of my adolescence.  I finally heeded the call and let things take their course.  And when I found you, I knew there could be no other way to live.

I can’t have you.  No one can have me.  And I know no other way to be.  So that’s how it is.

I’ve tried so many things.  I’ve pushed boundaries.  I pushed myself.  I’ve tried so many things, but none of them matter.  None of this matters.  We all move on.  Some of us are better off taking ourselves out of the lives of those who couldn’t really appreciate.  But it’s okay, we’d like to think we’re doing them a favor, in the long run.  And maybe, just maybe our martyred view on things was enough to make someone think a little more.  Just a bit more, about someone else besides themselves.

Until that moment, my days will be sad.  Because sadness is natural and numbing.  The late nights of drinking and fatalistic thinking will bleed into more of the same.  My purpose to live shrinks knowing my time could very well be cut short by an incurable disease.

We always get over loss.  It happens every day.  You’ll get over your loss of me.  And you’ll eventually just have memories of how I used to be.  That’s good enough.

So if the cards that are dealt me show no promise for a future with you, or for my health, I will spend the rest of my days finding the best way to permanently end my life, for good.

For awhile, I had something good to be remembered by.  And that’s all that matters to me.

There is more to life than the bourgeois pursuit of security.

Hasidism in America (Film)

And I love..

Drunkies.  It’s that hour that passes after the witching.  The one that hold so many dark thoughts and memories.

What the fuck are you going to do with me?

All weekend long, it has been a real trial of my own patience, and how much I can bear not knowing, not seeing into you, being without you.

I really hope you’re doing the right thing.  I hope this wait is worthwhile.

Because if it isn’t, you have no fucking idea the wrath that lies ahead.  I will rip your heart apart, with the softness of my unctuous words.  She will hear it all, and you will bear that scar.

She will know everything, and I will have no remorse.  Because it’s the truth.  Everyone, no matter who they are, should always know the truth.

Otherwise, how will we have learned?

If you’ve never eaten while crying you don’t know what life tastes like. —Goethe

If you’ve never eaten while crying you don’t know what life tastes like. —Goethe

Go fall in love.  I dare ya.  This is what happens when you do.

Go fall in love.  I dare ya.  This is what happens when you do.

Lonelier than nothing.

There is nothing lonelier than knowing when you write out your thoughts, feelings, vicissitudes of daily life, that you will not be read.

And if you are, in fact, read, you will be ignored.

And if you are not ignored, then you will be neglected.

And if you are not neglected, you will not be contacted.

And when you are not contacted, you realize, you are lonely.

And when you are lonely, you are overcome with the sense that you are nothing.

And when you are nothing, you want to abandon this life.

What is the point, anyway?

Nobody’s fault but mine.

Nobody’s fault but mine.

(Source: the-wrong-stuff)

Loved. Abandoned. Limbo.

I said what I said.  And it was all true.  It’s still true.  It’s still all up to you.

We’re waiting on you.  What’s taking so long?  Is there something else you’d rather be doing?

You have no sanctuary anymore.  You destroyed it in the fire.  Remember?

You fell in love, and now you hate your life.  You fell again, and now you’ll give anything to be free of this decision.  You agonize over your present and future, with the past bearing down on you with its intense guilt.

Such a sad life you live.  How can a man who can simply be, turn it into something so complicated?

My dreams are fading.  They’re wrapped in the sadness of your absence.  And at the same time, I’m getting used to it.

Loving, one day.  Rejection, the next.  How much more can my heart take?

Someday, my Prince will come to me.

And when he does, I’ll probably give him a good slap on the face, and ask him, “what took you so long?” 

And for the rest of our lives, together, we’ll work it out.