what i need is not words

Two months since the flu and I’m still sick. There was blood. Mornings linger like a fly unbothered. It’s disgusting but a proof of life. Or death. I learned to count the days unlike before when time didn’t own me. I owned it. It was an illusion. It was real.

Neglect and regret, I do. Like a wheel with no break, my demise goes unchallenged. The image looks lifeless, as everyone is. But I am not everyone. I am alive. Even if it doesn’t feel like it. Even if I don’t want to. I am alive.

I never realized how long the nights are when the ceiling speaks the same monologue so I can sleep. Although nothing was written, everything was heard. It was an illusion. It was real.

Visions are forced to wake up. There has to be a reason, I thought, even nothing matters anymore. No one does. Not even myself. Although I should. But really? Self-importance is indifference to everyone. So why should I?

The will is lost. I have not written any alter series lately because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether I write about my horniness when I’m dying. Memories just kill me faster and I wish to go slowly.

The help I need is not words. Words can only do much. Words are rather draining than uplifting. I thought they might help. They did, for a while. For a moment I wanted to live. It’s nothing but brief. I cannot afford the fleeting happiness of remembering. I just forget but likewise be reminded. Senseless.

I looked in the mirror and saw what could have been. It was an illusion. It was real. I wrote this so you wouldn’t be that surprised when one day I decide to take it.


6 December 2020 

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