February 17th, Year 20

The pain temporarily subsided, only to return with increased intensity. I was not meant to be human. Someone placed too much faith in my ability to live in this body, to interact with the people I have known, to climb the hills I have set foot upon. Every day, my legs are filled with new bruises. My hair gets tangled easily, like a tattered ribbon, curling against itself.

I telephoned Robert today, after receiving some somber news. I wanted an ear to listen, even an apathetic one. Of course, anything I had to say was said to a machine. My past lover cannot bring himself to care, unless it benefits him. Since I do not plan on ever finding myself entangled with him again, he cares not if I should thrive, or if I should get swallowed whole by quicksand. The message I left for him, was in reference to my friend Virginia’s boyfriend, who hanged himself this evening. He battled with addiction and schizophrenia. He was ill-equipped to fight.

It is a tragedy to die so young. Frankly, it is a tragedy to die at all. Or, is it that we age, losing a mind that betrayed us from the very beginning. In its loss, we still find no consolation, only further terror.

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February 17th, Year 20

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