It’s not my life but it’s this life which is suppressed. I would love to say that it is compassion which keeps me around because I DO care about others much more than I care about myself but really thinking about doing anything, good or bad, makes me stall and feel tremendously guilty.
I am overcome with worries about the lives of those I care about and right now I can’t be another part of their sadness so I shut them out as much as I can. It’s better to be distant than to be brutal. It honestly is better to lie by omission than to be the cause of their tears.
Who can see me anyway? Do those who have already gone watch me as I trace the woven pattern of my bedsheets with my eyes or as I sit on the kitchen floor because preparing food or thinking about what to eat is utterly exhausting? Does it even matter if they do see me? It’s not like they can do anything.
The people who can see me accept my pretense most of the time. They don’t push for the truth in an obvious way. This has all gone on for far too long. We’re so sick of it and the longer I stay in this state, the harder it will ever be to get back to some sort of reality.