Crouching with my head between my knees, all I can feel is you aren't my friend any more. You have not come to me in three years, not allowed me to come pour out to you. You are not any more my confidante. And I don't know your gender although I would like to think you are a woman. I generally connect with women better although there are some that I can't understand or connect with at all. And there are some men who listen. Some men who have always shown the right path while numerous others told me I was wrong.
It is something I cannot put in words. It isn't suicidal, really, although I must admit to having brought a gun to my head many times and thought of jumping off from a higher floor onto the wilderness behind, punctuated with abandoned iron rods, now bent with years of neglect. From the third floor, my instincts and agility wouldn't let me die. I will manage to catch one of those rods or maybe a branch of a tree to break the fall. If I could climb a wall 30-ft high, I can arrest my fall too from that height. So that's ruled out and every time I think of jumping off, it seems improbable. So I abandon it, but like I said, it isn't completely suicidal. It is like a sense of giving up, hugging myself and burying my head deep into my knees, looking for a painkiller. And then the cursor starts acting up, moving from one word to another, inserting stuff where they are least intended, pretty much with a mind of its own, making the blank page almost resemble my life, which has started involuntarily responding to external stimuli that are beyond me.
I have sought directions, cursed myself for not being able to attribute any real therapeutic powers to spirituality, found a counselor who has been able to show me the right path at times, but even she couldn't manage to hold me together for long because I wasn't really interested in finding the lost marbles. But was I losing it, am I? I don't think so. It is more to do with something irreconcilable I have done. And it can't be undone.
What are your pursuits? Why do we live? What is the purpose, going forward? Is it to sit and watch the gradual degeneration of everything around me? Read about how the white female tourist in India is masturbated at and watch my son gradually quitting everything he had taken up as a challenge? Like someone asked me, "where did I go wrong?" I want to ask the same. But to whom, I have no clue.
Where did I go wrong? You, my dear, had no clue what you were dealing with. A maniacal brain at best. Someone who has no control over his own actions. Isn't he getting enough sex? Maybe he is, but he wants to believe he isn't finding enough. That keeps him going and justifying whatever he does. He has many faces, some that are unknown to him, some that he forgets about altogether when burying his head into his knees and working up a fury. A furious defense, almost plausible, almost empathizable in its plea.
So is this. A coming back to you. You have listened, not been critical, been patiently waiting. I was wrong in accusing you of not coming to me. I hadn't come to you all these years. And am happy to be home.
It is something I cannot put in words. It isn't suicidal, really, although I must admit to having brought a gun to my head many times and thought of jumping off from a higher floor onto the wilderness behind, punctuated with abandoned iron rods, now bent with years of neglect. From the third floor, my instincts and agility wouldn't let me die. I will manage to catch one of those rods or maybe a branch of a tree to break the fall. If I could climb a wall 30-ft high, I can arrest my fall too from that height. So that's ruled out and every time I think of jumping off, it seems improbable. So I abandon it, but like I said, it isn't completely suicidal. It is like a sense of giving up, hugging myself and burying my head deep into my knees, looking for a painkiller. And then the cursor starts acting up, moving from one word to another, inserting stuff where they are least intended, pretty much with a mind of its own, making the blank page almost resemble my life, which has started involuntarily responding to external stimuli that are beyond me.
I have sought directions, cursed myself for not being able to attribute any real therapeutic powers to spirituality, found a counselor who has been able to show me the right path at times, but even she couldn't manage to hold me together for long because I wasn't really interested in finding the lost marbles. But was I losing it, am I? I don't think so. It is more to do with something irreconcilable I have done. And it can't be undone.
What are your pursuits? Why do we live? What is the purpose, going forward? Is it to sit and watch the gradual degeneration of everything around me? Read about how the white female tourist in India is masturbated at and watch my son gradually quitting everything he had taken up as a challenge? Like someone asked me, "where did I go wrong?" I want to ask the same. But to whom, I have no clue.
Where did I go wrong? You, my dear, had no clue what you were dealing with. A maniacal brain at best. Someone who has no control over his own actions. Isn't he getting enough sex? Maybe he is, but he wants to believe he isn't finding enough. That keeps him going and justifying whatever he does. He has many faces, some that are unknown to him, some that he forgets about altogether when burying his head into his knees and working up a fury. A furious defense, almost plausible, almost empathizable in its plea.
So is this. A coming back to you. You have listened, not been critical, been patiently waiting. I was wrong in accusing you of not coming to me. I hadn't come to you all these years. And am happy to be home.
