Don’t believe me…

Even I don’t know who the fuck I am.

Lost in my masks, a tumbling parody of grace. Pointless pathos. Pathetic. A half-formed trembling fetus.

Focus mother fucker.

Play your role. Fill your part.

Fuck you.

Fuck yourself, if you can figure out who you are…

I’m lost. I don’t know where the path is. I don’t even know when I stopped following it. Did it even exist to begin with? I don’t know. I think it did. I hope it did. But maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was all delusion?

I wanted to write something better and more substantial, but this bullshit is about the extent of what I’ve got in me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to make a list of what I want.

Do I even know?

I know I want to die again and I know I’m not supposed to want that. I know I’m not supposed to think about that, I know that I’m supposed to want to live. I don’t want to though, mentally at least. I’m a coward, have been my whole life, so obviously I’ll fight tooth and nail to stay alive, even if mentally I consistently lament that I’m not dead.

No spark, no zest. Love that ain’t worth shit.

Why does it seem like the bravest thing I can do is to try and kill myself? Don’t worry though, I won’t. Even that decision requires something I lack: conviction.

What a fucking disappointment.

Wait a minute…maybe that’s who I am. Maybe that’s my identity.

No, it can’t be. Disappointments are somebodies. Somebodies who failed. That’s why they’re disappointments. I didn’t fail though did I? My dreams were delusions, my hopes the same. I was expected to be someone I wasn’t, so even the hopes of others are nothing but delusions to them.

So then what am I?

A nobody.

Well, that’ll have to do I guess. I am a nobody, talking aimlessly to the void. There is very, very little that is real about me. In regards to the suicide: that’ll have to wait until Emi is gone. When she dies I’ll just have to reassess.

She is a great dog at least, so if I don’t make it, I have no doubt she’ll find a loving home—most likely with Mom.

Dicks for listening.