Going Home

I can’t keep dealing with what’s going on here. Or won’t. Or couldn’t. Maybe it’s that I don’t want to. Or that there will be times ahead just as tough and I don’t want to end up in a smoking pile of wreckage.

Whatever it needs to be phrased as, I am going back home.

I’m going back home to get help. For my head, for my heart, my future, and anything that could ever possibly matter. I want no part of this world any longer. If I could plead for anything it would be the absence of my existence. Not death, I have grown attached to what small beauty I still find here. But the state of it, the state of me? I simply do not care for.

I complain about all the hatred people have, I’m no different from them though. I’d love to set me apart from them.

We’re all people, mustn’t forget. We don’t need to be set apart, just united, as much as I don’t believe that will ever happen. It doesn’t mean I should accept it I guess…

I suddenly don’t feel like iterating the folly of man right now. I’ve been sick lately. I just want rest. My damn brain won’t give it. My neighbors certainly won’t allow it. I feel that work demands I am there for my last week. I have a lot of shit to do before I move back home. I haven’t showered in 4 days now. Too exhausted after working and have plenty more where it comes from.

I’m full of grief. I’m full of anger. I’m full of hatred for myself. I’m full of anything that destroys my chance for happiness, and it seems I’ve recently discovered that I’m only “happy” in my efforts to make others happy.

In this regard it has been conveyed to me. “The world doesn’t deserve to have person like you Grant” or something of similar effect.

The world does deserve me. I’m no different. There should be a better or worse, there should just be people.  The times are never prosperous and the issues always the same. We are no different now as a people than thousands of years ago.

Now, we just have technology that makes that easier to show. Maybe there is some prolonged issues since our life expectancy for the most part increases. But all the core issues remain the same. There is nothing that will change that I fear.

I say I don’t want to write and I begin to. I say I’m unhappy with myself and then write about the despair of man.

I no longer wish for this vessel of mine to carry forward. But I don’t feel it is my choice to act upon that wish. When I die, I hope someone gives a great eulogy. I think I’d be ok with my life if someone at least felt moved to provide a great eulogy. The one reason I want a living funeral.

I grow anxious and my thoughts, scattered. I abandon this journal for the night to steady myself for tomorrow.


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