over

My life would be a whole lot easier if I felt like it was going to be fucking worth it at some point.

As it stands, I can't see it. And I'm so desperate to be done here.

10:57 p.m. MST

I used to be able to pound all my little thoughts out on paper. As poetry, lyrics, kindling.

Now, I concern myself with the analysis of my little thoughts until they aren't thoughts anymore, as much as they are incidental and meaningless.

I used to have friends I could count on and now I have a group of people who I used to know and respect. Am I the one who changed or are they? Did we all?

How much of what I miss is the actual person and what they once meant to me and how much is it the feelings I had at that time? Do I miss the guy I said I loved, or do I miss the idea of what we had, which at the end was nothing?

These things roll over me like waves of grief and worthlessness and are compounded by my self-disdain, and now I'm worried for my mental health again and how often I've been thinking of suicide, in a different context than ever before.

It was once considered a great and difficult gift that I would be giving to those I love: an existence free of the burden of me.

Now all I see is the pointlessness of it all: I'll never be thin enough, have enough money, be confident, be successful, talented, etc., so why bother?

And I cry.
A lot.
All day, on and off.
At work.
In the shower.
Right now, in bed, when I should be sleeping.
I cry.

And I don't want to anymore.
I don't want to go through this again.

How much longer, how much more of my life do I have to dedicate to this heaviness, this sadness?

Because if everyone has their cross to bear, and everyone has their lot in life, and sometimes life's just not fair, I'm not interested.

If this is what I was put here to experience, by a fictional divinity or by an evolutionary shot in the dark, I'm too tired to see it through.

It takes so much to feel this way all the time: to feel completely worthless, and friendless, and useless, and talentless, and lifeless at all points in the day and have to fake the happy or at least the ambivalent because emotions are professionally inconvenient.

It's exhausting and I'm so tired.

I just want to sleep and never ever wake up.

Happy Birthday

My Blackberry told me yesterday that it was your birthday and I managed to avoid recognition of it until late last night.

Happy birthday. I hope your girlfriend got you something nice.

An Emotional Duvet Cover

I'm picking up tiny pieces of comfort lately.

Not comfort from what you'd think, but things in general.

I have a handle and then I'm dangling again and there are sharp parts of life that poke my feet and my neck and my heart.

I'm finding comfort in music which I haven't been able to do properly in years.

I'm finding comfort in the air which, when it enters my lungs, revitalizes instead of overwhelms me.

I'm finding comfort in mysterious sculptures that I have a hard time defining. I see that they are beautiful and I see form, but I cannot see it how the sculptor saw it, or how he commanded the stone into what it is now.

I get so worried sometimes that everything will crash and I'll be dark and sour again. I keep hoping that the peace that is here at this second only will remain for a bit longer.

And I have to remember to breathe deeply for relief. I forget and then I breathe shallowly and nothing feels as good as a breath that goes all the way in and all the way out.