well of course i'm hoping for an early death
2005-05-26 || 6:36 a.m.

It doesn't matter how much I try to ignore it, how much I try to bury it and forget it, its always there in my head. I know there's only one course of action open to me. As worthless trash I know exactly how things should go.

I'm tired of being tragic. I'm tired of telling people I'm depressed. In the stupid sham of a day to day life that I trudge through I'm tired of people rolling their eyes or taking the piss. I'm tired of seeing the sadness in Bex's eyes when I articulate this only part of me that's real. But it builds up and it builds up and it gets too much so that it completely overwhelms me. Its ridiculous. Even my face feels sad. My shoulders drop, I want to cry continuously but I can't, my brain feels like a brick and everything else is just hollow.

And that's my true reality - shallow and empty.

I suppose I must be as real as everyone else but I'm like a plant by the side of the railway, bending over and springing back again as train after train rushes past with purpose, going somewhere else. I'm part of the picture but dig me up and who'd notice? Maybe somebody. Maybe somebody who rushes past every day and likes to look out for the plant but they are never going to know the plant or walk up to the plant, or touch the plant because after all its just a stupid little scraggly plant by the side of the railway. One less weed in the world.

And so although I know exactly what solution there is, I am trapped. I can never go ahead with it because then the sadness in Bex's eyes would stay forever. And although I am an utterly utterly worthless piece of shit, I'm not so awful as to do that to her. Because she is worth everything in the world.

I just wish I didn't have to spend my whole life being sad. I just wish I could go back to bed today. I just don't want to get up.

I wish I wasn't always so able to continue despite the way I feel. I know my future. Its years of just shrugging my shoulders, accepting that I'm trash and carrying on working and paying bills and waiting to die. Its years of feeling like this. of laying in bed at night wishing the sky would fall on me. Of imagining myself slashing my wrists, stabbing myself, taking an overdose, hitting myself with a hammer until I knock the fucking shit out of myself. IMAGINING being the key word. Its years of imagining.

And in the words of the great: and all my hope is gone.