Thursday 27th October 2022
everything is grey. even sat here in the blaring setting sunlight I feel numb. sacked off. old. I don’t know what to do with myself. maybe I need a holiday. maybe in three weeks I’ll go. it’ll be cold by then. not this plain mid-warmth that’s been hanging around lately.
I wish I could run away. hell I even want to run away from her. that’s how I know I’m deluded. she’s my lungs and air. leaving her, I know, would be like death itself. and still it crosses my mind. I just want to fuck myself over. an alternative to actually kicking the bucket, one might say.
I wish I was a snail. then at least I might die. a torturous death, though it may be. a child skinning and crushing me beneath the weight of a pink plastic shovel or a rain boot. I’ll take what I can get. a death without the collective turmoil of a human death. no one ought to miss me then.