Love’s Requiem

This is my 501st entry.  In 500 entries, there is very little I haven’t said.  Nearly everything I write now is a repeat of something I’ve said before.  The more graceful side of me is screaming that it is time to stop.  That this should be over.  Should have been over a long time ago.  But the human side, that dreaded human side, has grown attached.  She likes to write.  She thinks something might come out of this someday.  She is too sentimental for her own fucking good.  But she has persevered.  And maybe at 1000 entries, in another 5 or so years, we will quit.  

Because you never know what will happen, do you?

Of course, there is only one way for this to end.  I’ve known it since the 4th grade.  When mortality hits you, you spend the rest of your life trying to recover.  Staggering around, wandering in circles, telling yourself over and over that they lied, because you are special.  Because you cannot die.  Because death is just too common and dirty for someone like YOU.

But you get used to the idea.  Or maybe you just delude yourself.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Sometimes you don’t even see the semi that runs you over.  Life is fragile.  Even time will kill it.

I read some of my old entries awhile back.  The really old ones.  From the end of 8th grade.  I had been whipped by middle school.  By 8 years of torment at the hands of my peers.  But I could still look up.  I was still growing up.  I was still angry.  By the end of 10th grade that had changed.  I can see it in what I wrote.  Anger turned to disillusionment.  Disillusionment flourished into cynicism.  At 16, I knew that the world was not fair.  That life sucked, and there was nothing I could do about it except accept it and move the fuck on. 

Am I still a cynic?  I don’t know.  Sometimes I feel the anger coming back, and I hope that maybe there’s something left to be angry about.  Angry, instead of bitter and accepting like a fucking doormat.  I used to fight for what I wanted.  Now I take what I’m handed, all under the ruse that this is growing up. 

There is only so much that you can blame on your parents, friends, teachers, whatever.  But maybe…maybe more of this is their fault than I ever let myself believe. 

I would have liked to have a friend.  Someone I could trust.  Someone I could fucking talk to.  Someone who didn’t need me to do their homework and help them study.  Someone who wanted nothing.  But you know what?  Those people don’t exist.  They are a fucking myth.  Because the only people who will be nice will use you.  What do you do when you look back at every friendship you ever had and realized how fake it was?  I never even know their favorite fucking colors.

I hate being human.  I hate feeling like I need people.  I hate feeling abandoned.  Neglected.  I hate that I still need these people when they have done nothing for me.  I hate being lonely.  Because I’m always lonely. 

I hate feeling.

I realize this entry has little cohesion, and I apologize.