If my fingers and forearm didn’t hurt so damn much, I’d have a lot to say at 3:00 a.m. I’d have quite a lot to share with this tiny piece of the world that reads my words. But my fingers and my forearm hurt too damn much. The pain of being who I am, where I am, when I am, is too great to permit me to share my agony with the world just now. So I’ll stop and say this: one day, my words will spill from me like blood from an open wound. One day, the immeasurable agony of an inconsequential life will flow like blood from veins freed by a scalpel from the constraints of the channels within which they churn.
I question everything at this time of night. I question the value of humanity and whether kittens and puppies are as pure as we’d like to believe. Do we live in a world in which decency is, truly, an option? Or do we deceive ourselves into thinking…wishing… humankind has the capacity for empathy and compassion? Times like this…times in which Trump is president and North Korea wants desperately to kill us all…make me think suicide is a suitable alternative to living among deliberate idiots.
Can I get some sleep tonight? I doubt it. But maybe I’ll try. If I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep and won’t wake up. But that, too, has its own set of problems. No, I won’t wish that on anyone, either. I just want to wake up from this goddamn nightmare. I want to wake up to the possibility of hope. I want to wake up to something beyond despair.