if heaven is a place without pain
it must also be a place without love
i cannot write anymore the way i used to
all of it feels like a desert where a lake used to be
the tenderest parts of me are gone
done dead vanished without evidence of having existed.
The only evidence is the writing.
The writing is flat now because there is nothing to write about. a writer loses a pen, loses a finger, loses parts of her body along the way.
one day it’s too much.
my walnut heart is enough for me. it pumps monotonously as i imagine it must for everyone.
life is a farce
no wonder all the ancient wise ones ached to be free of it
i do not believe in goodness or love anymore
i do not believe in life anymore
there is no internal drive other than inertia:
depression begets depression
doing things means you do more things
i do things. i keep doing things. life is just about the doing of it or ending it but even these choices are largely the same.
i have nothing to give anyone, after you.
after you, i stopped writing.
after you, i stopped loving.