No matter what I do. I’ve learned that over 25 years. Try as hard as I can or don’t try at all, nothing ever works out. I just roll the rock up the hill and watch it fall back down again.
It would be so much simpler if I could just die, but Death doesn’t want me. I’m not even good enough for Death.
I’m tired of being so torn up all the time. I want to be whole, but I feel so scarred and disfigured. Ive read enough psychology to be able to self-diagnose the feeling as typical of trauma victim mentality, but that doesn’t make it any easier to cope with.
I’m a joke. I’ve sacrificed so much for petty victories, but in the end I’m a joke. In the end I can do nothing. In the end I’m just one step away from trash on the street. A nice house and a nice town or a jail cell in San Quentin, or a nice little white room in the Alta Bates psych ward. One step away in any direction.
I just…I can’t anymore. I have nothing left in the tank. I have no energy left for the wheel. I don’t care anymore, I just suffer. I don’t have the will to even try to change my fate. I don’t want to live out my mistakes for the rest of my life, but I can’t climb out of the hole I’ve dug for myself. I don’t see anywhere I can go.
I was reading through my past writings earlier today, years and years of writings. First it was fantasy, long ago. Then I went into my religion phase. Then tried to write memoirs and more literature. Then philosophy. Now all I can write is horror. My world is a nightmare. There is so much I am grateful for, so much I am thankful for…but it’s all garbled up in this twisted way, so that everything is a shadow of itself. Or maybe I’m a shadow of myself. Not sure anymore. Horror. That’s all I have. Horror.