On being alone

People tell me that I should be thankful. People say I have so much to live for. People say lots and lots of things. But I don't feel that way all the time. I go on and be happy and cheerful and keep on a good face. A smart stiff upper lip, and I'm learning not to whine. "Let it all out" They say. "Trust people" they say. "Take as much as you need" they say. But when I do that they all complain. "You don't understand how you feel" they say. "I'm real busy" they say. "Its time you moved on" they say.

So as it turns out, I fake for a while. A right good liar. I speak everything on my mind, I say. I trust all my friends, I say. They all help me immensely, and are always there for me, I say. Because it turns out people don't like me.
(Perhaps not dislike, they just find so much so much better than me. I'm really just not worth the trouble anymore.)

Time certainly doesn't matter. We all change, and how could I ask for someone to care about this thing I've become! We all drift apart, that's how things are supposed to be. Promises don't matter. No one can really be taken seriously if they say that they'll make time, or that they'll be there when I need someone to talk to. Life has far too much going on to make time, and no one really means that they want to hear what you have to say. They just want to feel like a good person for offering.

I'm horribly lonely, again. It seems this is what I can come to rely on. The pain. The empty white room, with no one in it. The fall. I have become Sisyphus, with my rock, and my mountain, to bear alone. Do not tell me I need to learn to trust, you have taught me that I shouldn't. Do not tell me that things will be good, you have taught me that they won't be.

I have learned that I am here to push my boulder up towards the heavens alone. I will tone my being, with every sinew, with every fall, with every success. I will be a worker towards the better. And I will do it by myself.

I will be that lonely rock pusher. Until nothing but my company is all I will remember. For there isn't a damn soul, who has convinced me that they will help me be otherwise.
At least my cat doesn't lie about what it thinks of me. 

Still here.

I've still got a brain. I'm still here. I can see when you lie with your face too, you know. Actions speak quite loudly, you know.  I would like an explanation, I hope you know.

The fog

Then the depression sets in. The numbness is pretty strong. You just feel tired. You want to die now not because of pain but because it just seems better. Nothing because you're dead seems better than the nothing of just empty.