set me on fire in the evening.

I want to destroy something.  But you don’t fucking care.  I don’t fucking care either.  It’s ten thousand fucking degrees in here.  And I can’t fucking sleep.

I want to destroy something but all that I have is myself.

and you don’t fucking care.

All I want is some justification, one way or the other.  Why do I bother when each day is the same?  The same pains, the same truths, the same facts.  I’m dying in more than a melodramatic sylvia plath sort of way.  This illness is taking me and it’s my own compliance that will be my end.  I honestly can’t find the incentive to fight, and yet I can’t justify throwing the towel in. 

Why am I building a future?  Why have I even bothered going this far?  Every day I’m reminded of the frailty of the human condition. It’s like that short story…the one where the family wishes for money and get it in the form of their sons insurance when he dies.  Ironic.  And unfair.

But no one ever said life was fair.

I wanted my mark on this world to be something worth remembering.  How tragic that I’ll probably not leave any mark at all.