His thoughts were as much his enemies as were his enemies, but he often couldn’t tell the difference. What was real, what was fiction? His thoughts helped him, plagued him, haunted or taunted him. How was he to finally deploy them in the service of the good and not just in the service of his own destruction?
He was an asshole, got in fights, arguments, said things he shouldn’t, fucked up friendship after friendship. Sometimes, he thought about how soon one would go south. He could feel the triggers of annihilation bubbling up: he felt his irritability, anger, and muscular angst. One text could ruin months of built trust and care.
For a time, he gave up caring, thought that the human connections were pointless, meaningless and ephemeral. Each time, he realized he was wrong. He could not abandon this world. He had to come to terms with his behavior and find a way out, some way out, whatever that might be.
Sometimes, he felt his life to be a cascading series of fuck ups that couldn’t be stopped, snowballing into some future fiery oblivion that he tried everyday to stave off, some days successfully, sometimes futilely. He knew that he would have to change something, or make a change, or lose everything someday, little by little.
This is not the life he wanted to live, and he knew he still had so much to learn and do and improve on.
Bearer of Pity 