/lit/ - Literature

>>23220421
The alcohol is getting a little out of hand. People ask about it. I hate that they do. I want to tell them exactly why I do it. And why I never go out with them. And why I never call. I've imagined the conversation many times. It usually starts with me getting angry at their prying. I tell them that when I look in the mirror I'm disgusted by what I see, that I make myself sick. That's about as far as I get. They wouldn't understand. Nor would I want them to. Why would I want them to know how pathetic I am. I'm sure they suspect it, but they don't know it. I've been running on the benefit of a doubt for a while now, earned some respect, at least enough to generate some concern now that I am cracking at the seams. But nobody benefits I come right out with it. With what again? Stuttering about self-hatred? To get some pity? Pity is a stinky cologne in adulthood, John. Forget it. I don't even know whats wrong with me. I'm sure I dont even want to be helped.

I'd like to lay down on a dirt road somewhere, beneath a wide open blue sky, temperate breeze through the trees. A bird whisps by, then another, elegant shadows in the sunlight. I would like to lie there forever, a stone, a part of the landscape, somewhere in a dream or memory. Somewhere not too cold.