I believe we all may be losing our grip.
--PRIVATE--
We’re all doing ever so well here, aren’t we? Most of those I’m so used to sharing space with spend their time elsewhere anymore because they don’t find this a comfortable place. It’s too cold and cheerless and tired. Staying drowns them in sorrows so they leave it silent instead. Of those known in the Desperate Fans community, there are only four of us regularly keeping our presence known and one of those four is the typist herself, who is currently going mad with a self-loathing that other mental inhabitants who have known her since childhood say that they have never seen the likes of within her before. And it takes me, the sad and sorry excuse for a human being that I am, to pull things together in a sensible pattern and tell all.
The psychic is around, more often than not. He’s simply quiet and stays in his corner with his notebook and his pen and tries to block everything out. You can tell when you watch him that he fails at that.
Then there’s that little girl, Babette, who I know is sad and lonely. She’s desperate for someone to hold on to. Desperation is the only reason, after all, that anyone would cling to me. She tries the best she can to make things right but there’s only so much that she can do where everyone else is failing.
And then there’s me. What is there to say about me? I’ve contemplated suicide recently, which has upset my typist to no end even though she knows that I would never go that far. It would be much easier, though to just go through with it and leap from that window. If only I didn’t know that it was a coward’s way out. If only I didn’t care about being seen as a coward. And there’s more to it than I’ve told and more to it than I will possibly ever tell. Or perhaps, as I lose coherency along with a great deal of my sanity here, I will tell all anyway. I have nothing to lose in bearing my soul so long as five-sixths (six-sevenths now?) of my family never knows. Or perhaps it would just be best if no one ever knew but me.
Sometimes I think that we should all leave this poor girl alone. Then I realize that the silence would kill her. And I dare to wonder why she’s crying when I’m so much of the trouble myself.
--END--
Darling? What would you do if I truly went insane?
We’re all doing ever so well here, aren’t we? Most of those I’m so used to sharing space with spend their time elsewhere anymore because they don’t find this a comfortable place. It’s too cold and cheerless and tired. Staying drowns them in sorrows so they leave it silent instead. Of those known in the Desperate Fans community, there are only four of us regularly keeping our presence known and one of those four is the typist herself, who is currently going mad with a self-loathing that other mental inhabitants who have known her since childhood say that they have never seen the likes of within her before. And it takes me, the sad and sorry excuse for a human being that I am, to pull things together in a sensible pattern and tell all.
The psychic is around, more often than not. He’s simply quiet and stays in his corner with his notebook and his pen and tries to block everything out. You can tell when you watch him that he fails at that.
Then there’s that little girl, Babette, who I know is sad and lonely. She’s desperate for someone to hold on to. Desperation is the only reason, after all, that anyone would cling to me. She tries the best she can to make things right but there’s only so much that she can do where everyone else is failing.
And then there’s me. What is there to say about me? I’ve contemplated suicide recently, which has upset my typist to no end even though she knows that I would never go that far. It would be much easier, though to just go through with it and leap from that window. If only I didn’t know that it was a coward’s way out. If only I didn’t care about being seen as a coward. And there’s more to it than I’ve told and more to it than I will possibly ever tell. Or perhaps, as I lose coherency along with a great deal of my sanity here, I will tell all anyway. I have nothing to lose in bearing my soul so long as five-sixths (six-sevenths now?) of my family never knows. Or perhaps it would just be best if no one ever knew but me.
Sometimes I think that we should all leave this poor girl alone. Then I realize that the silence would kill her. And I dare to wonder why she’s crying when I’m so much of the trouble myself.
--END--
Darling? What would you do if I truly went insane?