morbidity

I am nothing.

I sit and ponder the gray that is my floor.  Is my face on the ground, or is that my imagination?  The knowledge, it fills me!  It is neat.

Only it isn’t neat anymore.  It’s just exhausting.

They are exhausting.  Plodding in and out.  Their laughter in the hall is harsh and loud.  Suddenly I feel sympathy for all those whom I have tortured with my happiness.  I’m sorry guys.   I didn’t mean to irritate you.  I think of being alone with a longing left usually only for major things . . . and it is odd, because most of the time my longing is for the opposite, for the chance to just not be alone for one moment.  For one evening, I would just like to go back and remember how it feels to see myself reflected in someone’s eyes, filling them. And yet, by some divine irony, I also would like to be alone.  To escape from the socializing that sucks me in, involves my heart, even when I desperately want to detach.

I think I’m morbid.

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