Don't Read

This weekend I'm going to paint my bedroom white. Right now, it's sort of green, and that's not kosher with the housing authority, not that they know. I want it to be white, so white it will be. That gives me a task for the weekend, and I feel good about that. Generally speaking, I'm pretty useless these days. A single dutiful parent is incalculably more useful than I. I know that I'm a drain on society, and that borderline schizophrenia has rendered me useless, despite my very best efforts to recover. As the days and months pass by, I'm becoming more detached from life and thinking about my death. If it could only get here soon. My friends are tired of me and my need for reassurance. And there are several people who need to outlive me. Without them, I don't know if I could make it a single day.

I shouldn't write when I'm like this, for obvious reasons. I'm not suicidal, but I'm in this cage that I've fashioned for myself and I haven't the will to leave it. Occassionally, a wisp of life rises to my window and I catch a whiff; of love, passion, sex, empathy, curiosity, erudition, hatred, envy, and all that jazz. And I know as I sit here, terribly tired from having taken 2 lorazepam (nightly ritual), that deep down not a single one of you cares about me one little bit. Either you think I'm strange, or stupid, or perhaps even potentially dangerous. Maybe I annoy you or remind you of a past you'd prefer to forget. I don't know. I'm living the life of a phantom these days. A sycophant in both financial and emotional terms that most would prefer to give a wide berth.

And that's that, the story of me. I plopped out of my mother on July 26, 1972 and lived under a series of delusions for awhile; That Santa exists, that god exists, that I am intelligent, that I am a loving and compassionate partner, that I would teach and be a person of consequence, and finally I grappled with and savagely murdered the last delusion, that any of this matters. People are fond of telling me that I live with many false negative delusions about myself. I'm so tired of hearing that. So the tale of me, at this point, has evolved into a ghost story. A ghost is defined as, "A vague, shadowy or evanescent form, as wandering among or haunting living persons." I did exist once, but in this room right now at this moment that's hard to imagine.

Goodnight.