Thursday, December 22, 2016

Selflessishness

Everything I do, I do it for you ... for you to do for me as I do for you ... I think?
Maybe it's all for China. (Thank you Tim Minchin ...)

So far, it seems that the oft-pondered mystery of human contact - or lack thereof, technically - is figuratively (and perhaps even literally) debilitating.

It's a matter of trust, you see. I don't trust myself, so how can anybody else trust me, let alone love me?
Touch is all I know, all I feel, all I fear. Probably won't be long now before I get lovingly caressed by the considerable momentum of an errant vehicle. To die without a hug; is it worth it?

Am I worth it? Somebody save me from this fucking hellhole, because my conscience is irrevocably past the point of apathy.

Also, random girl crying on the side of the road. I wish I'd had the strength of character to talk to you. For what it's worth, I love you - or at least, I hope somebody does.

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