Sad people do cruel things. To themselves and to others. And the tricky thing about sadness is the shroud of justifiability. The broken heart thinks it's kind. The lonely soul is furious at almost everyone for dismissing her. I've untied the knot of my sadness for so long, and the root of the tangle is both complicated and unavoidable, but also, after that delicate age, simply self-sustaining. After a while sadness is a shortcut. Living on the emotional doll. So precious, but not enough to thrive. Leaving it behind is not worth doing something hard. I have been this sad-addict, and I know them.
I had a friend destroy me with her sadness, and she thinks it's my fault. There are many things about her that are still a mystery to me. I can't know the whole story because she never told me. But the last thing she said to me was that she knows me. Knows me completely. But I'm wrong about her. This kind of explanation, I now see, is insanity. It's the overcomplicating of a basic emotion. It's the ultimate stance for the sympathetic character...being misunderstood, relatable mostly to teenagers, or in other words relatable to narcissism. I loved her though. But she didn't want to see me change. I figure my grieving for her is going through half-lives. This cycle shorter than the last. I look forward to the day she is mostly dead in my heart. It will come. So much poison for so many years.
As for me. The nonsense comes up still. Taking every word personal, every action, every minute. Taking the weather personal, my mother personal, a look from a stranger. Old habits, seeds of cruelty. I see it coming now. I've got a 360 camera called experience. And I tell myself to stop. It's not glamorous. It's not musical or revelatory. But it works. Too much of my time here I've been a dick. I owe some restitution. To others, yes, so harshly judged, and to myself.