Subject: But you may feel a little sick...

Mood: empty
Music: "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" by Pink Floyd

I want to call in sick from work today. Because that's what I am. Sick. In every sense of the word, except physical. And, in a world where the corporal is all that is important, what does it matter if you are dead in every other way?

I was terminated. There's no other way I can put it, because I've gotten myself into enough trouble as it is. Isn't it amazing how you can think that things are going so well, and then they have a way of falling apart on you, all right in front of your face in a matter of seconds? You think that you're valued and accepted somewhere, that you're liked and finally belong. But it doesn't last. Nothing gold ever stays, as Frost said.

I want to curl up somewhere and not come out ever. I don't want to be anymore. I want to just disappear. But, of course, I have to go to work. Of course, I have to go. There's nothing I can do. I'm trapped. I find it amusing in a gut-wrenching way that I make for myself a symbol of freedom, in my one-summer decision to never be enslaved by obligation and fear ever again, and then I hide that symbol beneath a sleeve. It's the inescapable cowardess in my life that sickens me.

- dearjoan's shadow

[real me in...]