I know of at least one person who's probably getting a huge kick out of all this.
Reading my blog, between the lines, the things that I cannot and will not say. Imagining the pressure building up inside me. Gleefully imagining the day that I'll explode into a million pieces.
"It's what he deserves, after all," she says to herself.
There are too many similarities. There are too many parallels.
It's like my life is preordained, nothing more than a grotesque reflection of my own immutable past. I am living the nightmare that I once caused for another. My silent screams do not awaken me, they only push me deeper into terror.
I hand out advice like acid at Woodstock, but I ignore it when it's given to me. Even when it's the same advice.
I tell myself that things will get better, even though my own experience tells me that this can only end in sorrow.
I have become the victim of my own desires. They stalk me, they toy with me, eventually they will destroy me. But not until they're tired of their games, and I fear that will be a very long time from now.
To pass the time, I surround myself with hypotheticals. What would I do, if? What should I do, when? How should I prepare, just in case?
But it's all bullshit. There's no if and there's no when and there's no just in case. There's only reality, closing in inexorably, crushing every possibility except the one that leads to an end. To our end. To my end.
I know of at least one person who's probably laughing her ass off about this. It's what I deserve, after all.