This is My Life?
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It has been about five and a half months since Alex was last here.
Is that why I’m feeling this way?
When I come home I mostly want to just go to sleep. I want it to be the next day and to go to work.
But at work I just want to go home.
When Alex was here my urgency to return home was rooted in the desire to be near her again.
Now I open the door and wonder why I could’ve ever wished to return to this cluttered desert where anomie meets chaos and all I see is filth and a lack of desire to live.
Not that I want to die. But I look about me and resent the need to feign an interest in going on another day. I live because I’m a coward: too weak to make myself dead.
But were Alex here I’d be as happy as a puppy biting itself in the back of its neck.