2001-10-17
I should send those pictures back to her. I should write and tell her about my life. Something trivial. Something that doesn't hurt. And I can't do that. I'm just waiting for tomorrow, waiting to be locked up. And I dunno. What if I actually do get locked up? It'd be horrible. I don't want to go back to hospital. Although I don't want to continue being here either. I don't want anything at all. I guess I should tell him that.
But. How could I possibly write to her when all I want is to stop existing? Or to him, for that matter. I have nothing to say. I mean, I could write pages and pages full of crap about how horrible everything feels, but that doesn't make a proper letter.
And somehow... I don't want to write to them at all. Who are they anyway? Just some people I haven't met at all (or for ages) and who couldn't care less about me. (Hell, I couldn't care less about myself.)
It's easy to think of writing. Like it's easy to think of painting. Like it's easy to think of talking. And none of them is that easy, in the end. The words come tumbling down. I'm wordless. And I'm...
It's not so big, after all. The letters wouldn't probably make it anyway, considering the threats of anthrax and so on. I don't know. I haven't felt this isolated for a long time. Even if I do find something to say, I won't find the strength to say it.
I'm tired. Tomorrow I'll meet the pdoc. I don't know what he'll say. I don't know what I'll say. Nothing is going to change anyway.
I want to die.
---
(a few minutes later)
Heh. I did EAC again. Just for a laugh. And it did make me laugh. [Not like I really cared, but because the whole thing is totally, positively absurd.] Because I got 93%.
(I'm very well aware of the fact that it isn't a reliable test, but it did make me laugh anyway ).