Another wasted year, another circle around the circuit. Another wished for ending that never came near enough. Fifty six years, thirty of them well after I should have been planted in the past tense. This sick turn around the mulberry bush, waiting on the weasel to go pop. Years of bedtime wishes never to awake, as the body atrophies and the mind fragments, words and images and conversations sealed in this dull and fragile skull. Damned if you do, damned if you’re done, this life is wasted on me. You wake up, old and alone, aching for the end.
A lifetime of life unworthy of the word, nothing but a reliquary for hatred and mockery, a pariah plumed with expletives and contempt. Holding tight to what little seemed reciprocal, cleaving to the way the winds seemed to blow, ending up with the receipts of the imagination. The won love, the returned affections, all the stories you keep hoping come true. But I don’t know how to be a person that is worth it. I don’t know how to hold onto any value where all that I cherish is worthless. The liars and hustlers and thieves thrive, in this, the shittiest of all possible worlds.
I had hoped not to make it to this birthday the way I had hoped to perish before my last. Of course, it looks like I’ll have to handle this on my own. I am trash awaiting disposal, and hopefully I will achieve my end before the year is through. It isn’t just me that needs to be done, but if you think you have a reason to hang around, that’s reason enough. As for me, I can’t keep being miserable just so I can lighten someone else’s load. I am through with dissemblers and deceivers, and take no comfort in your long standing lies. I’ve only ever been a fool, useless and ugly and nothing worth the effort it takes to circle the drain.