Running out of steam again. Hanging on by my fingernails. Panicking when I realize it's desperation slipping in. I don't ever want to get desperate. Nowhere to turn, no one to turn to. The platitudes ring in my ear of imagined people telling me what I should do to "get help". Shakes me out of my stupor. Don't want it. Not from fucking random people. Then what? Whine more? Wine more? Scrambling for my own solutions, and realize that scrambling for solutions means I'm desperate. And alone.
For the record, because I didn't commit suicide years ago, with the most recent, notable opportunity in 2004, it's only gotten worse. These are existential problems. They only get worse as existence not only continues to confound, but life morphs into a more ambiguous quagmire of concrete moral suggestion. That's what happens when you live in the world more because you failed to commit suicide.
This is the way it's gotten messier: I regret not having committed suicide at the 1996 window of opportunity. I don't regret not having done it in 2004, even though I wish I had and feel everyone would have been better off, assuming that everyone is better off already no matter what happens. It's just not as easy to say that I regret not doing it as it was after 1996.
My suicide would not have been a big tragedy in 1996, nor 2004. Life would have gone on. And no one would be able to claim that they have to carry the burden of my selfish act with them for the rest of their lives, because no one knew how much I weigh. What of me can they claim to carry? I'm an abstraction at best to everyone who knows me. Whatever burden they feel they have to live with is them themselves.
But I'm projecting onto them, and showing more about me than what can be objectively expected of them. I need to get out of my head. I need to get out of my body. I need to get out of me.
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| 3:04 p.m. |
