Death and destruction.

It’s kind of strange how I never write about my days here anymore.  Probably because each one is the exact same as the one before, and I don’t care enough.  I could write a book about it, really.  "Life of a library aid."  Chapter one: today I woke up, dusted books for 8 hours, and went home.  Chapter two: Today I woke up, dusted books for 8 hours, and went home…

I know you don’t care.

Sometimes I entertain the idea that maybe there is someone who does.  But I know better.

I think it would be nice if there was someone I trusted.  But I know better than that, too, because my greatest strengths are my weaknesses.  Somewhere along the line "doesn’t trust easily" became "doesn’t trust at all" and "independent" became "isolated."  It makes me sick how much of my life is an act, the fact that lies pour so effortlessly from my lips.  Integrity?  Is it possible to have integrity without being honest?  

All I’ve wanted to do for the last 2 months is sleep and break things.  Ideally, I could do both at once, but I’m not that talented.  There is nothing out there worth having, nothing worth waiting for, and, dare I say it? ‘Nothing worth living for.’  But it doesn’t matter.  Because I can still wake up in the morning and do This, so They can sleep easily at night, secure in their knowledge that everything will always work out in the end.

I’m such a fucking fake.  And I can’t blame Them, because even if this is all for Them, with a little more courage I could forsake all of it, all of This.  I’m just a coward.

And this is how it ends.