unflatteringpicturesofmycat:
Dear Michael:
Wedging yourself into the uncomfortably small gap between the arm of the couch and my body probably isn’t worth it. Also, mashing your head against the back of my hand and sticking your feet in my face doesn’t make me want to pet you.
There is about four feet of extra couch to my right, and you choose to sit in the seven-inch gap on my left. Why?
“I don’t get nearly enough credit in life for the things I manage not to say.
“I don’t want to live. Now listen, life is lovely, but I can’t live it. I can’t even explain. I know how silly it sounds, but if you knew how it felt, to be alive, yes, alive, but to not be able to live it, I am like a stone that lives, locked outside of all that’s real. Anne, do you know of such things, can you hear? I wish, or think I wish, that I were dying of something for then I could be brave, but to be not dying, and yet to be behind a wall, watching everyone fit in where I can’t, to talk behind a gray foggy wall, to live but to not reach or to reach wrong, to do it all wrong. Believe me, can you? What’s wrong? I want to belong. I’m like a Jew who ends up in the wrong country. I’m not a part. I’m not a member. I’m frozen.
