Each anxiety riddled miserable day takes me closer to the end. Days of sadness and tears mark the happier days I have left in existence.

I can’t help but be bitter at the world. So many seemingly could have helped; could have done the right thing. I wonder if its just that my sense of right and wrong have been clouded by my own selfish and desperate needs. Like a hungry child feeling entitled to food, when maybe no such entitlement exists in man’s law, nor God’s. But what is one to do when his needs are so overwhelming? Steal bread to feed the body but what can we steal to feed our souls? What do we, or the heavens, permit, in such circumstances, when wretchedness has overcome and feasts upon all manner of civility and gentlemanly conduct.

I’m alone. Filled with bitter thoughts. Hateful rage for some, may torture find them, but remorse and regret for others, ideas and things. In every case, where I was victim or misguided by an unfed belly of the soul, I am at a loss. No wisdom implores me to act and make wrongs right. I have sought but never found an answer or way. I am now in a room ever darker, where the sun never rises or sets upon its dreary windows. There is no way to make right those wrongs, those of my own, nor others. The past has a permanency that my future cannot make peace with. I will not accept it.

When I dream of my death I have visions of tears from past enemies, former lovers, family and friends, and barely know acquaintances. I don’t think they’ll cry for me, but I like to imagine it and then I remember, if only they cried for me now, fed me now, I hadn’t need for death.

It’s raining on old dirty snow today. The rust from sewer covers and dirt from gutters taint what were once fluffy white snowflakes, that as children we’d catch with our tongues. I am that snow the rain pours on now. What was once pure and holy white, now melts in the dirt and the side of the road.

I tremble with fear at the thought of continued existence. What hope is left is that of a child who dreams the impossible. Made to feel humiliated by others, but also shamed by the past, no rational hope can be left.

I wait. I live in this purgatory hoping for someone to save me when I know no one is coming. The proper thing would be to die quietly, instead I suffer loudly as to spite all that have hurt me, rightly and wrongly.

Soon or eventually I will go. There will be no tears and the world I dreamt of will die with me. I was one of the lost and hidden, forgotten and ignored. I was, I am, and I will be no longer. I hope to find the courage soon. Forgive me, it was only going to get worse.