The only reason I have to live is to continue existing in her life. For now at least. I hope to find another reason soon, one that thrives in passion instead of guilt. Or any reason that makes my path more clear. I write this with trembling hands and a heaviness in my stomach. I don’t want to spend another day just bored and breathing, but it’s starting to feel inevitable at this point. Everything just seems so gray. Today I could imagine myself walking past the same old buildings again or doing anything other than sitting here, but I know I’d feel the same. Like the day before and tomorrow. Oh well. I don’t think I’m even physically capable of doing anything anyway. I feel sick. I feel weak. I miss only battling the emotional restraints like I used to. The symptoms of rotting from the inside out suck.

The wannabe writer inside me reassures me it’s okay to feel this way because wanting to die is my muse. So here I am, declining phone calls and playing editor with my stream of thoughts. Twisting my inner voice until it’s just another unfamiliar piece of writing. I’ve learned that I’ll feel less guilty about letting myself rot if I romanticize the reasons why I do.

So I’ll spend my daylight hours writing, as if my reasons haven’t been said before. I’ll define feelings and paraphrase symptoms, and pretend my narrative isn't what keeps me rotting. I’ll spend my evenings reading books by authors able to communicate what once was ineffable to us all; with beautiful words arranged in ways unheard of. I'll read another someone's narrative that conveys hidden feelings within us all. Like discovering a brand new color. Then I’ll find myself waking up again, still bored and breathing; rotting. I spend another day writing in a new shade of gray.