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A toast to dying inside

2022-02-28 - 1:03 a.m.

I did not block anyone. I did not give long treatises. I sent a single period. No teary goodbyes. No hateful invectives.

Just done.

Full stop.

I can never enter the real world again because of the pandemic. They say to keep up social ties. My old life feels like a desiccated corpse I shovel myself into.

It’s not me.

I want to dig graves or fight demons and drink every night. I want nothing and no one. I want to be a ghost. And just like that, cutting off the blood supply to social interaction, that will happen.

There are no real friends. No true lovers. There are mutual transactions. Wire transfers between banks.

I feel like a hobo. I’m done with even the pretense of being normal and social and who I was 720 some odd days ago. That me is gone.

I am an alcoholic.

I am a recluse.

I could have my wife leave me or stay. It doesn’t matter.

The only constant is pain. Pain and regret.

Here’s a toast to dying inside.

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