1.27.17


I’ve been sitting in this same spot, beneath the streetlight for days, weeks, or months- my perception of time has gone away, along with my memory. I can’t even recall what I’ve taken; all I know is that I don’t feel right at all. It terrifies me everytime but I know that it’s not the prescription cocktail. It’s just my mind- having become a constant, violent onslaught of suicidal fantasy and it’s consequential disorientation by apathy and overwhelm. 
I’m here again, as always- I’ve been off the deep end many,many times before; though seemingly a little deeper of a plunge with every regression. So obvious, even I can see it now. 

It’s not even that I believe the pitifully cliche lies about being worthless, or that no one cares- I just don’t care if anyone cares. I know there is, and will always be beauty and light in this world.  I know that good will prevail in the end. I just don’t want to be a part of it’s torturously slow fruition any longer. 
I’m too weak to open my eyes again- even to the truth, of most often a cruel thing. I desire no pity, nor to waste the well- intentioned help of anyone more. I write for myself; to say that I claim the full weight of responsibility for where I have inadvertantly brought myself, upon myself, or done to myself. So I’m here again- tired, but this time I don’t want to come back from it.

 And that’s just fine. 

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