Do you want me to tell you a story? A story about me. I haven’t much reason to live anymore and that’s the truth of it. I once had a conversation with my best friend and he and I came to the conclusion that living and dying are equal in importance. That the people we love would move on, that the people we know will find new people to think about loving. That in fact we are unimportant. That we contribute nothing. I am an artist in my way. A poet and playwright. A guy stuck in my own fetid husk of a body.
My story isn’t that fascinating and believing that anything I say or do has any meaning. Thinking that anything I write is important is a lie. It’ll all be forgotten eventually. Just like me. Just like every person in this world. As my sister said to me Who’s Shakespeare.
I find it so hard lately to find the pieces of me that keep me here. Certainly dying and being nothing at all would be better. The comfort of atheism is that I know that I have nothing to fear. I’m not afraid of being nothing. It would be worse to see my friends and family trying to piece themselves together after. Sit in my chalet in the clouds, surrounded by dogs and cats and parakeets. Watching my Mother pretend she cared, perhaps realise that everything is not my fault. See my Grandmother realise that I needed her and I never felt that I could tell her everything. See Ryan and Allie actually know me and care. Find it is not their fault at all but learn to live again, after a week. A month. A year. Its hard to measure who you are in other peoples eyes. But if connections are all we are in this life then certainly that’s all you can measure things by. If I measure myself in my own eyes I am either the greatest thing that ever existed or the worst thing that was ever put on this earth. Both as egotistical as they are false.
So maybe I should edit my play. Or write a poem about it. Or slit my wrists in the bath and have some type of singular blood orgy. All in all. Less in less.
Things will be better tomorrow.