i cannot demarcate for you the line that i crossed. i cannot find it. i’ve looked and looked and i cannot tell you where i went over, when i lost myself completely, when i became hard and intolerable and impatient.
i cannot tell you when it happened, i cannot even tell what brief series of events eroded that last piece of me that i used to look on with such pride and remorse and longing.
i’d like to believe that it’s some sort of nostalgia, some sort of experiment in masochism that will eventually end and i could gather and analyze all the evidence and draw a conclusion and somehow be better off for it.
but i think, even then, i’d still feel swindled, that i was still missing something vital and pure and true.
i sometimes think i’m not even broken anymore. that this is what i am supposed to be when i’m all put back together. this is me, whole. this is me, cruel and unfeeling, sealed and complete.
this is me, nothing that i ever was.