I sit in my bed and I repeat life once lived, moments of joy and sorrow.
I listen to music and I stare out my window, looking at the people eight stories below, the dead trees, the vast blue abyss of the sky. At night I stare at the lights, the behemoth clusters of lights, each with some human inside, some person.
I listen to the people out side of my room, they brag about sex, boast about scores in a video game,
complain about their girlfriend, these people, they seem to have something going for them.
They are satisfied with hedonism, distraction, joy of nothing, sex and somehow they are having fun.
I sit in my bed alone. I would join, but I despise them. They are living the fictitious fantasy called college, here I am.
I live in some fiction, tired of life, but anticipating some future, some dream, some something to make life real and worth the effort. It seems dangerous to become immersed in seclusion, but I do it anyways. I occasionally interact with the social world and others, but mostly I lose interest.
Everyone is filling space with small talk and laughing about absurdities.
I wish I knew what my goal is, but really so far it has just been to make it to my death.
Today I went to a forensics lecture, she showed image after image of murders, suicides, accidents and every sort of death.
I saw a woman with her throat slashed, I could see the vertebrae. I saw a man's arm slit by his own doing, hesitant cuts, then one deeper, then the fatal slash to the bone.
I learned that the best way to commit suicide is to hang myself and the best way to kill is to poison.
Then I look around myself, at least one or two suicides a week in Kansas. Images after images and I realized that this dream is a veneer that is easily destroyed; the abandonment of existence is terrible, but only to the living.
So life moves on and so do I.
Today I got a Japanese import, a gift. I smiled as I imagined giving to you.
