Six impossible things before breakfast

When things start disintegrating, at first, you expend all your energy trying to stop the disintegration, trying to keep it all pieced together. At this point you haven't learnt yet, the pointlessness of it all. And trying to keep everything together, well, that's something you have to do, a rite of passage, so to speak. 

It is important, in hopeless situations, to not lose hope too early.

At some point (depending on how resilient you are), you let go and everything crumbles beautifully and truthfully you feel a little relief that what was supposed to happen, has happened. You let it all go.

And then you watch all the pieces fly every which way in slow motion. It's beautiful, kind of like when you are projectile vomiting after a night of too many drinks and the pieces fly out of your throat to everywhere, coating everything. And you lie exhausted in bed, too tired to mop it all up although it stinks something awful, but you think, in the morning, I'll do it in the morning.

And you like back and take a much-needed rest, because now that the worst has happened, you're no longer anxious, you no longer care, you'd just like a little sleep, for a little longer, pretty please.

What happens after the worst has happened?

What happens when there's nothing left to hold on to?

What happens when everyone has deserted you and you no longer have anyone who loves you, who will take your part?

What happens when people watch you tentatively from the sidelines, not willing to catch your eye, in case you engage with them and beg them for help?

What happens when your life is a train wreck, a 10-car pile-up on the highway, a bloody broken thing of gore and twisted limbs?

Why was I born? What's the point of it all? 

I'm just too tired, OK?

No I don't want to get up. No I don't want to try again. I don't want to and you can't make me.

Just go ahead without me.