Chronicle of a death foretold
I have not cried. I have not been able to. The pain is dissolving me on the inside. I writhe.
I sleepwalk through work, smile at people and go through the motions mechanically. There’s a certain dreadful monotony at home. I play the fool, joke around, sit through a game of scrabble with the same detached nonchalance as I would while helping mom with cooking.
A friend drives me around the city, we pick up food on the way and talk life. Another, miles apart, calls on cue. Yet another urges me to see hope in the shades of grey. They shake me momentarily out of the reverie. But the magnetism of the abyss is overpowering and strangely inviting.
It’s becoming a task to pull words and string sentences together. Everything seems to have slowed down to an nth of its original pace. Sights and sounds please no more.
i have just lost my favourite memory.
love trouble? i’ve got the magic chat that can help revive the dead. look deep in your soul, find that dead part of you, and whisper into its ears, “Fuck it.”