Sometimes I find some hope for myself to become deserving of my life when I find myself changing auto-correct’s assumed “love” back into “live” for what feels like the hundredth time in recent months, and I realize that I communicate far more about loving than I do about living.
I recently saw a stranger online saying that there’s two kinds of loneliness.
She said there’s loneliness of being without someone. That’s the kind most think about or mean when they hear or use that word, and it’s certainly not a good feeling.
She went on to say that there’s another kind of loneliness…
I feel so guilty just for being alive.
I’m not right in the head and I think I never will be.
I just need to get this out tonight.
Night air in late spring
My thoughts drift to nearby friends
Now feeling so far
Their memories are vague concepts to me.
Myself, who never knew their fields:
I can only catch glimpses from a distance,
aided by stories told across chasms of time
and left written in the sand when the empathy tides recede
on memory shores.
…
I killed an insect on my desk this afternoon.
I’m not sure what it was, but it was probably harmless.
I could have put it outside.
I could have gently shooed it somewhere else.
But, I didn’t.
I crushed it, with a tissue, so I wouldn’t dirty my fingers.
Now the stink of death lingers in the room,
and I wonder where my heart’s gone.
.
June 4, 2025
“It’s too much. Again. Again, you go too far!”
I hear it loud and clear.
“You are too much!”
I am too much,
But — too much for what? Too much for who?
…
(Stream of consciousness foolishness, as sleep begins creeping in.)
…
I need to write
I need to breathe deeply
I need to inhale your calm peace
So I can exhale all this fear in exchange
…
A friend a couple weeks ago helped me begin to think: “Rather than a defect causing difficulties, it’s a difference causing difficulties.”