I grow weary of their tired answers and flawed reasoning. I’ve learned a lesson though, so I suppose that is something. I knew that they did not care; what bothers me is the act they put on trying to make me believe that they do.
I try to be kind, but I find that bitterness seeps into my words. I laugh when I shouldn’t. My death is funny, my end is a comedy, don’t you see? They retreat in horror, hidden behind that faltering, stoical gaze. But I see it. I see you. You hesitate, swallow, take a breath that’s a fraction too deep. You think I’m wrong. That’s what your body says, even when you try to formulate a response free of your own shortcomings.
For a human being to speak without bias is impossible. Even the most practiced speakers give themselves away, and what are we all but piles of dead-ended feelings and constant misconceptions? We cannot make any statement that is not tainted by the virus that is our own humanity. And what a filthy thing that is.
You read me wrong, fool. But I read you.
You like listening to me talk about those decaying memories? Does it make you feel powerful?
I hope you liked my voicemail.