As yesterday's wounds dry into brown streaks on my wrists, I am reminded of how my life seems to be something written by Sylvia Plath. Today, I had the strong urge to block myself in a crawlspace, take a bottle of pills, and die.
But I don't have the guts. I could never get myself to cut my wrists again, and certainly could never garner the courage to kill myself. What I want is not to die, but to disappear. To just stop. To severe all my connections so that my disappearance would impact no one but myself, and then to just disappear. Like washing away with the tide or evaporating or just floating away with the wind. . .anything like that. And if people were cursed with remembering me, it would be the way you half-remember a library book that you never finished or had to return because it was on hold for someone else. Just fleeting, emotionless memories--"oh, yeah"'s
Life in New York is ironically lonely. You can be lonely anywhere, but there's a certain pain that comes along with being lonely and still being able to hear the sound of the streets and other people's laughter. It's as if it's saying, "Look at what all you don't have. Look at what you can't enjoy. Look at what you're not."
But then again, I wonder what I would be like in the country somewhere. Lonely and isolated. Would it be better? Worse? It certainly wouldn't be so painful. . .so. . .in-your-face.
I imagine that this city is full of lonely people.
They assimilate well.
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