So that’s the real end of this chapter. Just how satisfied with my life am I at this juncture?

It could all be meaningless at this point.

Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi! You are my only hope!

I mean, it’s all really funny really. It’s so weird how laughter and tears can constrict your chest in the same way. I think the only difference is the way your stomach tightens. Of course, it’s all very similar to vomiting.

Times like this, thinking doesn’t really help me all that much. I mean, all I can really do is rehash the same old standard philosophies. I’ve taken this path before. I’ve taken it so often that [it has] become familiar and increasing comfortable.

Oh, [redacted], was there truly any hope that it would transpire any other way? My nerves all scream out…. I relive all my similar miseries in unison, but how could it have been anything but preordained?

There is no room for bitterness, rancour, or even self-pity. [Like a falling stone and the force of gravity] the outcome is inevitable, can you even, would you even marvel at it? I fucking it knew it, and I was too cowardly or too stupid to move out of the way of that speeding train, let it hit me full on again for God’s sake.

It’s really hard not to give up. Worse, it’s just as hard to not give into false hopes. I cannot predict the future, no longer how long I talk about it, or how long I write about it.

Listen. If I knew how it would all end, if I knew that at some juncture in my life I would attain some sort of happiness, however transient, I could just put it all out of my mind, and keep going to that end-point.

If I knew that someday, my cup would be overflowing, even if just for a few heartbeats, I could just laught it all off and not care about spilling.

But if this spectacular failure is the closest I [will ever get to] happiness, I really don’t know if I could bear it.

Listen. I’m only here because I’m pretty sure that at least a couple of people would be upset if I ever gave up and left. For myself, if all there was to the universe was myself, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether I lived or died.

My life is predicated on other people’s expectations. I have neither the courage nor the wherewithal to conceive of my own ideas, much less act upon them.

But I can’t help but feel this was it. Without this, I am less than human. I have begun my certain downward spiral, and if I cannot have even a few moments of love, then even these last damned years will not be worth it, nor worth anything. The purity of this is absolute. I can no longer stray. I guess the best I can do is keep a record.