The Black Spot
I thought about the full stop again today, the end of the sentence.
The last few weeks have been punctuated by feelings of being in parenthesis. Being somehow separate from everything and still unable to escape this melancholy period.
Depression is something like vanity for masochists sometimes. When your happy for everything to be your fault. To be the malevolent singularity around which the world revolves, to be the cause and effect of everything that could ever go wrong for everyone.
You ask people if they are alright or if things are going well not out of kindness or concern but out of paranoia. To reassure yourself you haven’t upset them and put your own mind at ease.
Sometimes I would be happy just to remain functionally miserable. To force a smile and wear that as armour against the world while the soft centre fails to hold. But that’s not always an option unfortunately.
I worry the sadness seeps out of me and infects others around me. So at first they become wary and eventually become frustrated and driven away by my constant trials and tests.
Faults in friends become deadly wounds piercing my sides like spears. I start to despise those closest to me and those who have drifted away overtime.
But at the same time I need people to like me, to need me more than ever.
So I can drive them away. They have to prove they care about me so i can conspire to make them not care. Why? Well people, friends, social networks they all get in the way of the end of the sentence.
So I Strive not to be missed and aim for shrugs where the bad news breaks rather than tears.
I’m waiting for the end of the sentence – but I’m still not sure I want to write it myself.