I have been preoccupied with death the last few weeks.
As I feel more and more sapped of strength, the comforting thought of laying down and not getting up sounds so soothing and releasing. Though at times I feel stronger, the pervading sense of finality is welcoming.
Excuse me please for allowing morbidity to overtake my being. I don’t think it’s necessarily odd for that to occur in older people. Maybe I am pushing it a little but my reasons are not outlandish, they are completely valid. Maybe when I start with my new therapist next week, there will start a change. I just don’t see it.
Hey, I’m no Nipsey Hussle, my passing won’t be mourned by but a handful of people. I don’t know, maybe my journal here will become more read and recognized as a cry for help and also depth of understanding for those who need to know. Maybe the music I write that has always struggled to share will spark in my final years.
My writing has become more transparent and genuine as the veneer of religion and other pretext has been torn away.
For your benefit let me say that my death is not imminent, unless there is something in the works I am unaware of. I am slogging through each day allowing the full effect of mental illness to be uncovered and dealt with. Each day life is a little less flavorful, a bit less worthwhile, and a lot less valid.
I suppose I am left with exactly what I deserve when one sabotages their entire life. A voice unheard, friendships never developed, a heart hardened by abuse, a lack of sustained faith, and an increasingly solitary existence.
If you have spent any time reading here, thank you. If it has made a difference for you, I am happy to hear that. As I have said before, I will write until I am dead, as often as I can.