November 7th, Year of the Corpse

I wait for something to happen. I’ve done it before, seeing nothing, no matter my patience. Perhaps that should have taught me to take action, but it did not. Maybe it should have proven that nothing will ever happen, but it did not.
There is nothing in particular I envision transpiring. All I have, is a need to experience something so powerful, it confirms everything good I have ever believed in. It speaks of potential, it contains the brilliance of victory, it exemplifies unconditional love.

I see nothing. I feel less than nothing. Tolstoy was correct in describing boredom as the desire for desires.

A woman sits a few feet away from me, with a man who could be her husband, and is most certainly her lover. She looks at me, when she is not looking at him. And I hate this. And I want to scream at her. I loathe attention in all its forms. But I do nothing, other than look through a spotless window, into weather that mocks my state of mind. The sun damages my eyes. Silently, I reason with it to stop emitting burning rays, and yes, I know exactly what this would mean for life itself. I know about a great collapse. I know about sudden annihilation. I have always been aware of the enormity behind my requests.

Mother is well. This should provide me with some relief, but I am not one to react in an expected way.

November 7th, Year of the Corpse

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