It's like this, really; every day is a little death, each lie down in bed like shutting the lid on the coffin. One more shuffling step to oblivion stuck in a multitude that pulls me along without choice like Japanese subway passengers. Each night I can feel myself sliding right off of the cliff, hands scrabbling at the gritty crumbling edge and not finding purchase, slipping down into the empty gulf of air.
It's the light, once the old black and white television is turned off, shrinking smaller and smaller into the dead black field, tinier and tinier until its undeniably gone.
Retroactive non-existence.
I don't have the tools to fight these feelings, I've been under drugs and therapy for years and I'm no closer to living with this express train of thoughts. When the meds are high enough I don't sit up and scream in the night. That's the big difference. How can I be of help to anyone, much less myself, when I don't believe in happy endings?
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