I wept today. I cried like no other. My foundation is being disrupted. My emotions are being hard to keep in check. It has been quite some time since I have seen a nomad come through, but the undead traffic is getting thicker. The smell is horrid. I feel like I can't breath anymore. I have to remind myself to inhale a deep breath and exhale fully. I'm uninterested in everything.
Everything.
Painting seems worthless.
Reading is too distracting.
Music cannot be played with the undead so thick outside.
I may have to do it... always save a bullet for yourself, right? Make sure to put it far back in your throat, right? Disconnect the spine from the brain... kill the electronic signals... I refuse to walk this earth with my eyes like milk and my skin rotting. I can't do it. I can't. I won't.
Why am I to survive this? Why am I still alive? For what? So I can do 200 crunches a day and 200 pull-ups? Is it my goal in life to succeed in muscular strength and killing of those I once knew? Those that I could've known? Those that I pushed away so I couldn't get too close?
Before all this I was a nobody by choice. People scared me in the way little babies frighten grown men. I would wince at the thought of someone wanting to be by my side. Sex was something I could offer, it was a give and take. If I was actively in a sexual relationship I knew where we stood. I knew I could offer them something... but to just be my friend... to not want something of the flesh... I was lost, confused... burdened with the thought of not being wanted. It drove me crazy... so I just shut down. Shut out. Gave up.
Frightened I retreated to my job, my faceless internet friends.... my horror novels. I distracted myself with the idea that death could be a gift. A gift given at the right moment and I would cherish it always.... now, at the face of it... Death is the endgame I can't permit myself. But why?
Death is quite literally knocking at my door, knocking over trashcans and eating your neighbors. Death is outside, teasing me... teasing me with the non-end it creates. All of the death.... all of the dead... they mock me. They call me broken, because I am not like them. I was never like them. Before when they looked more like me, cleaner, I still wasn't one of them... and now, those lines are more defined... and yet I am still on the other side of the fence sharpening my blade waiting for the next war.
I'm praying for rain and wishing to see someone else... anyone else... I cry quietly but why? I can't seem to answer my own questions. I can't seem to shut out my own thoughts. I fear I have become one of them.
Everything.
Painting seems worthless.
Reading is too distracting.
Music cannot be played with the undead so thick outside.
I may have to do it... always save a bullet for yourself, right? Make sure to put it far back in your throat, right? Disconnect the spine from the brain... kill the electronic signals... I refuse to walk this earth with my eyes like milk and my skin rotting. I can't do it. I can't. I won't.
Why am I to survive this? Why am I still alive? For what? So I can do 200 crunches a day and 200 pull-ups? Is it my goal in life to succeed in muscular strength and killing of those I once knew? Those that I could've known? Those that I pushed away so I couldn't get too close?
Before all this I was a nobody by choice. People scared me in the way little babies frighten grown men. I would wince at the thought of someone wanting to be by my side. Sex was something I could offer, it was a give and take. If I was actively in a sexual relationship I knew where we stood. I knew I could offer them something... but to just be my friend... to not want something of the flesh... I was lost, confused... burdened with the thought of not being wanted. It drove me crazy... so I just shut down. Shut out. Gave up.
Frightened I retreated to my job, my faceless internet friends.... my horror novels. I distracted myself with the idea that death could be a gift. A gift given at the right moment and I would cherish it always.... now, at the face of it... Death is the endgame I can't permit myself. But why?
Death is quite literally knocking at my door, knocking over trashcans and eating your neighbors. Death is outside, teasing me... teasing me with the non-end it creates. All of the death.... all of the dead... they mock me. They call me broken, because I am not like them. I was never like them. Before when they looked more like me, cleaner, I still wasn't one of them... and now, those lines are more defined... and yet I am still on the other side of the fence sharpening my blade waiting for the next war.
I'm praying for rain and wishing to see someone else... anyone else... I cry quietly but why? I can't seem to answer my own questions. I can't seem to shut out my own thoughts. I fear I have become one of them.
I worry that I am a zombie, shambling around town and this whole thing is my soul, catatonic, being carried around in a rotting shell.
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