Sunday, 17 February 2013

I Wish I Was a Bonobo

Right, fuckwit, write.

I thought I was doing so well the last three weeks. Now, a mere bloody 74 hours of isolation bar children, and I am going out of my tiny mind. I want to be strong, self-sufficient, and all the rest. I despise myself for wanting to be, because I am so self-evidently not. I hate this garden. I hate the swing I tried to hang myself from. This whole landscape is death and misery. I hate myself, this house, even my children when they remind me of what I was, and what I am now. I keep hoping that something will get better one day. I know it is childish, but whatever gets you through, eh? If I look hard at myself, rationally at myself, I see and realise that I am getting worse year by year. Why should I endure? My mind is fucked, and my body is following swiftly in its shadow. I make everyone unhappy, including myself. I want to change, but cannot see how to force that chink and break out. I find everything in the world stale and pointless: all suffering, all happiness. The sight of a new-born baby makes me cry. I'm back in No-Future-Land. So. All I can do is tell myself: "It will get better." I'm glad I'm a good liar.

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