When time goes by, and it feels like no time at all, and I wake up five years older. When the same ideas have played over and over in my head, too many times. When life changes your face until you don't recognize that person you glimpsed before realizing it was a mirror. When you realize those jokes are about your peers, and you desperately cling to any shred of "that's not me" you can find.
An existential pessimism has invaded me, and every time I root it out, another seed sprouts like a magic damned beanstalk. The end is not all there is. I have lots of time to do things I find pleasurable. With or without meaning, it is all I want to do. But time is getting too fast for me to want to fight this pessimism. I'm inundated with pain when I'm not working. The short time I have when I am not in pain seems to get shorter every week. My recovery from everything is harder and takes longer. Then I'm back to the same things that bring me pain.
There is not enough relief. The time I waste just trying to get by until I feel okay is getting shorter and shorter. And I'm creeping closer, every day to 44. Will I end up like my mother? 44 was the last year she could stand here. What will happen to me in the coming year? Will it matter, anyway?
Yeah, I guess that's becoming a reality of my life, now. I'm about to hit the age she was when she took her life. (She tried before that. Really tried, I mean. Not just cries for help. But she succeeded at 44.)
Time is getting too fast, people are getting too far away, and I just don't know what the point is.
Honestly, this is where I am. All this physical pain. Pleasure doesn't seem to exist anymore. What the hell is the point, again?
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