I feel like there is band tightening around my head. It becomes tighter and tighter as I wake up for morning every day. I can’t seem to figure out what my problems are. I think people are generally already dead. I wonder how many people will attend my funeral.
I feel aimless. I feel hollow. There seems to be nothing left in me. I wonder about the countless bodies buried in cemeteries and the unmarked graves beyond forests and city lines. I go on dating websites, but despondency takes me away. I bury myself in a deep pool and wed myself to sorrow. It’s the only time I think about how human I am. I think about how fragile and poor we all are—especially me. I think
about the damning things I’ve said and the ill-judged actions I’ve done. I pander in self- regret. I cry bitter tears and watch the world fall out of place.
I am most attracted by dark grey and black. I don’t mind white as long as it is pure white. I like exposed beams and rafters. I like exposed brick. I imagine where I can hang portraits and paintings.
I feel most at ease sitting by a window during the day, but most vulnerable sleeping next to it. I am cautious of burglars and thieves. I rue the day I come face to face with one. I am not afraid of dying. I am, however, afraid of dying in mid-sentence. I have come to terms with death. I can think of taking one’s own life. I hate the saying, “Life is too short,” because it is and it isn’t; maybe, “The noose is too short,” is more palpable.
But for this, I don’t ask for pity; I ask for recognition. I ask for a place where I can feel useful again. And that, I think, is here, with my friends.