Innocence

It's gotten to the point in which I do not know what to say or do anymore.  Perhaps I do know.  But it just doesn't seem like anything, or it doesn't seem like enough.

I feel guilty about missing the past two weeks' fears that I thought I would chase down.  If I went, would this news not be here today?  I doubt it...I cannot stop such things.  But I can hope, I can try.

I feel so selfish.  I think we all do, at times.  Is it selfish of me to focus on myself so much now?  Does my poor excuse of fear, of thinking about this all, does it hold something?  The idea of thinking about what I have been told, the idea of sitting there, bearing it, having it on my mind...  I don't want to face it.  I want to pretend it's not there.  I understand that it'll hurt me in the long run, but I am not ready for this pain right now.  I do not want it here, I do not want it in my face.

I held her frail body in a hug a little bit ago.  I fought back tears and didn't cry.  I refuse to cry.  It'll happen.  It'll probably happen soon.  But I don't want to cry right now.  Denial is the only thing that seems safe right now.  I should probably sit with her and be there and talk or listen or do whatever is needed.  But, right now, I cannot.  She is on the phone, so I am using that as an excuse to run to my bedroom and hide from the reality outside of my door.

I wonder if I take up smoking if it will kill me faster.

All of my thoughts seem so pointless, meaningless.  Selfish, stupid, nothings.  I'm trying to turn my heart to stone to make this bearable.  All the cliché things to make the pain temporarily not there, and the cliché knowing that it really is still here all along and it will bite me in the ass sooner or later.  How long?  If I cry now, what will it do?  If I cry later, isn't it all the same?  We're all just fucked.  So what does it matter.

I wonder if I'm writing to myself.  Does writing here make myself feel better, give me some sense of something?  Do I really believe someone is reading this, is it comforting?  Do they keep their mouths shut because, in a way, they are like me, afraid?  Afraid to say something, afraid of what is real.  I believe so.  I don't know if it's cowardice or what.  I'm sorry for being blunt.  But, at the same time, I am not.  It's alright.  I don't like to talk about things, anyhow.

I am a liar.

So back to watching Trainspotting.  Funny.  I thought about what it'd be like to try heroine.  Thought, heh, I wonder if it really is that powerful, that good.  I wonder, if I could only get my hands on it once, would it be worth it?  This was all before I got that knock on my door that said, "It's not good news."

As suspected, this week...

I'm just not going to have expectations anymore.  I'm going to try and not care about anyone else that much anymore.  Life is trivial.  So are people.  We're just statistics that elaborate our stories to be remembered.  All in all, though...what do we really matter, anyhow?  We're all going to die anyway.