The empty can.

I would love to rip the line and comment on how I’d always relied on the kindness of strangers but lately I’ve been thinking that what I thought was kindness was actually pity. There is nothing so embarrassing as other people’s pity the moment you realise it exists. It’s quite shattering. Still, these days everything is shattering and there is the irony of writing this in public space. Nothing cries ‘pity me’ more than tearing yourself apart in public. I’m no longer sure why I do it. It can’t be anything with good motive. I could pretend that I’m being true to myself and this vomitous self-loathing pile of stupid mental distress but I fear that I am far too low-brow for this. Maybe I want the pity because I just want something. Something is always better than nothing, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

I hang myself out. I’ve got to tear this out. I’ve got to get it away from me. I’ve got to scream and shout. I just cannot take any more. I’ve got to beat it out of myself and kill it. I need it gone. I want the bile gone. I want the jealousy and the hatred to find a new home. Something worthy perhaps. Not so much me. I’m pushing it away, all of it away, I can’t take another moment. Oh, but I will though. I really will. There is no choice in that at all. You just go on and on.

And the people are going too and I can’t blame them at all.