It is better to give in, than it is to give a fight. I am more disconnected from people than I have ever been. I cannot feel the warmth they try so hard to give. I cannot feel when they touch me, so that I wonder if I am really alive. They tell me their stories, all filled with prosaic details. The kind that are supposed to be relatable. I listen, because it is all I can do. When they look for me to contribute something to connect us, I am lost. I look away. I shut them out, until they forget to expect anything of me.
What wicked things we do to ourselves. We are lucky to live in an age in which most harm can be undone with a pill. The calm comes in a pink hue; while happiness comes in blue. But I am not made for that. The problem is that I do not know what I am made for. My fists strike against things that cannot be destroyed.
I am going to write about the power of three, as this will pass the time. I am going to sing words I have just made up. Maybe they mean something. I am going to pick at my skin, and scar it with poems I learned as a child. I am going to dream of love, and strangle it when it drops its guard.