I’m not suicidal, but many things haunt me. Dang, what I’m trying to say is I have that… I am that. I am David Foster Wallace sometimes. But I am not him. I don’t have to win. I don’t have to destroy myself or anyone else. I could write a much better book. Meaningless.
I sat this morning waiting for something. Some kind of wisdom. Realizing I’m waiting forever for nothing if I can’t make it myself.
Many thoughts I cannot express.
I’m not done here.
There’s no mandatory self destruction for people who can feel and think in different ways than others do. I heard it, felt it, was less alone because of it, but I don’t have to act like a man who turns his pain and anger into inevitable self satisfied destruction. I won’t.