I foolishly expected you to care.

How many people feel like they are the most hurt, the most unloved, the most rejected, the most ignored, the most unlucky, the most disappointed and disappointing? A lot, probably. I am not the most of any of these, of anything.

I am unsatisfyingly in between. I am not the worst, I am not the best. There are many here with me, such is the nature of being unwillingly part of a kind. But, nevertheless, I am surrounded, which makes it worse. I don’t like to be with many.

Curse my belief that everything that happens, happens. That it’s supposed to. That there is a grand orchestration to this life and existence and the universe and the other universes. But bless it also. It gives me a great deal of grief, but also that thread of hope. And it won’t cut. Not until a crushing blow is dealt. And, thus, it gives me great dread as well. Two big bads, and a small, flickering good.

Please be good. And not in a general sense, or in a different direction. Be it to me, for me, at me. Intensely. Imperatively. On purpose. Don’t deal that blow, even if you don’t know you are doing it. I implore you. Please.

I could live forever on a crumb, on a smile, on a word. But I could perish if you turn away with finality. In this miserable and damp limbo, I could remain. I don’t want it, but I will abide it to avoid utter decimation. Give me another option?

And of course it seems like I am being too dramatic. I am.


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