What Should I Say When I Die

I haven’t written anything in a good, long while. Well, two months. I’ve felt more like dying than writing, to be perfectly honest. One thing I’m not going to do here is lie.

It had come to pass that what I had thought looked quite a bit like an unspeakably beautiful glimmer of hope had begun to appear in my life. It turned out that I was just retarded, after all. It was so weird! It was in keeping with the patterns, though, unfolding themselves round about me in perpetuity of what I’ve now come to realize must be an intentional strengthening process.

I really don’t have anything to say now. I’m writing only mechanically. Through the terrible miracle of the human body, I am causing fingers to depress keys on an electronic device, and this is resulting in words being formed, in a sense. It’s therapeutic, even when there seems to be no point, and no purpose, and hope cannot actually even be felt anymore.

All of this creates the necessity of there being a response of some kind. Historically, that response was to despond, and to languish. More recently, something like resilience began to emerge, and this has now grown into habit. Which, I mean, that’s good.

I choose to trust in the hope that these experiences represent a path which can be used to my own advantage. Outside of this choice exists only fear for me, and fear is literally the least useful thing, ever, and it should be killed. It should be dragged out into the street and shot in the head, without mercy. I have no shortage of motivation for the upward extension of middle fingers towards the phenomenon of fear as a whole.That is all.

Progress is difficult, but at least there is something.

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