I find myself asking this question right now, and it’s tearing the already tattered remnants of my soul to microscopic shreds:

If no one loves me–and God help me, I don’t just mean a mother’s love for a child, or the generic well-wishing of friends and acquaintances—

No.

If this is all I’ve got, if it’s just going to be me against the world, if this this is all there is to my existence, if this is all I have to look forward to, year after year, world without end, this numb and muted solitude, this bleak, colorless, suffocating indifference–if that’s all there is and there ain’t no mo’, just what exactly is the point?

I can’t get out of this morbid thought. It gnaws and rasps at my heart, and, frankly, it hurts like a real son-of-a-bitch.

But maybe this kind of sorrow wouldn’t be such a weight if it didn’t make me feel like crying every so often.

They say you can get used to anything, eventually. There aren’t really too many viable alternatives, otherwise.

I’m probably just crazy.

Or maybe all I really need is a good night’s sleep.