My knees hurt. I need bifocals to see anything in detail. Some days I feel completely out of sync with the reality around me and on others like I have never been elsewhere.
I am writing. I feelgood about my writing even I know it cannot be that good, that my fictions do not entice anyone else. It is like when I look into my past and dealing with the actual physical pangs of embarrassment. Some from so long ago still have power over me.
I see nothing behind me except a history of choosing wrongly every time. The ultimate reality comes from knowing I have no future. I destroyed myself and death will catch up with me soon enough. The sooner the better I tell myself. With death comes the end of all this foolishness.
sch
2/29/20
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