Ah, what's the point? Death's not coming fast enough. I just can't...be me any longer. I hate to disappoint all those who have put their faith in me to pull it out for a come from behind finish. I'm just not cut out for this.
No joy. No hope. No vision.
Could things be worse? Indubitably. Will I stick around out of spite as things plummet to new lows?
I don't know.
I'm just tired. I sat in group with my camera off the whole night, speaking very little. Others went on about their week, their excitement, their emotions, their insights and resolve--I had nothing. It was hard to even exist in that space.
If I could have articulated my emotions, it would have been frustration, jealousy, pettiness and anger, but I didn't even have the energy to do that.
I don't have the energy now. And I don't owe anyone anything by way of explanation anyhow. Whoever reads this, AI, most likely, or some worker in a data mine putting my file together: Suck it. Harvest my thoughts, my last drop of cortisol, adrenochrome, whatever you can, while it lasts. The tap will soon be dry.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.