I think it's exhaustion. That's the only explanation I can come with at a pinch. My mind has deserted me and it's been awhile. Every time I have to finish something, every time there is a deadline, I go to pieces. I cannot write, I cannot think, the words get away from me, until I force them, force them, force them...
I don't know what it is. I can't tell. Part of me is in mourning and I don't think it will ever get out of mourning. There are so many that I miss so much. They're not here anymore. They will never be here again. And I can't even hear their echoes or see their shadows, no, not even in my dreams.
If I try to read something fairly complicated, my mind shuts down and refuses to comprehend the words - they're just words, strung together in some sort of pattern that really, doesn't penetrate my thick skull.
I am tired most of the time, all I want to do is sleep or hide out or run away.
These waves, they frighten me.
At which point did I lose control over my life; at which point did I take the wrong path?
I can't tell. I survive now but barely. If I go on like this, they'll ask me to leave. And who could blame them? I'm of no use to anyone, especially myself, and I'm so tired and so sad...does this sadness ever go away, can this grief recede?
When it comes down to it now, I love nobody. No, not anyone now that Mummy and Arnold are dead. They died and took whatever tender feelings I had left with me. Not that I wish them alive...not in the condition they were. It is right that they are dead. But it doesn't feel right that I am alive when I really have no desire to live.
But I will.
I will put one foot in front of the other and force myself to go on because the alternative is just too much shit for those around me who don't deserve it.
