Or did it just explode?
There’s nothing left to say because I am no longer a compelling subject. And all I’ve ever learned to say is about myself. Since no one actually cares who I am or what I think or even what I will become, this poor fool has taken it on the chin and come to grips with at least some reality.
What do people write about who aren’t self-absorbed?
It’s a question worth asking. Even if we don’t want to hear the answer.
So many poets before me wrote about the weather, the flowers, the leaves falling from trees. And yet I just want to discuss how each and every moment affects me emotionally. I want to micromanage my own feelings. My own yearnings. My own preconceived ideas.
But no one cares.
Why is that, again? How is this just and fair in the world?
I forgot the answer. I do not know that I was ever told the answer. And yet. I am invisible. I am the man no one needs to see. Not glorious. Not anti-glorious. Just “a guy”.
This could be the worst suffering yet.