I’ve said all there is to say. I am in pain. It’s undescribable. Relentless. Downtime is excruciating. Work is a chore I push myself to do because I don’t know what else to do. Time melts. I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die. I am alone. I chose this. Crying hurts, and I do it all the time. I have nothing. I am an empty container with limbs playing pretend. I think I’m exaggerating. Things aren’t that bad. I’m just an awful person. Selfish above all. I don’t want to do this anymore. I need to be nowhere. I want silence. The doctor should’ve let me choke. I should’ve been kept away from everyone. Should’ve never been allowed to love. My skin and lungs got the worst of it. I am fine. I’m letting it be. Nobody will pray. I don’t want anyone to pray. People will forget. I am no one. I have nothing
Every other day of this year has been the worst day of my life. Oh but I have to work.
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Normal people say, I can’t imagine feeling so bad I’d genuinely want to die. I do not try and explain that it isn’t that you want to die. It is that you know you are not supposed to be alive, feeling a tiredness that powders your bones, a tiredness with so much fear. The unnatural fact of living is something you must eventually fix.
— Meg Mason, from “Sorrow and Bliss.”
Mount Revelstoke National Park, Canada by Pierre♪ à ♪Vancouver
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