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She awoke every morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningfull person, to be, as simple as it sounded and impossible as it actually was, happy. and during the course of each day her heart would decent from her chest and into her stomach. by early afternoon she was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for her, and by the desire to be alone. by evening she was fulfilled; alone in the magnitude of her grief, alone in her aimless guilt, alone even in her lonliness. I am not sad, she would repeat to herself over and over, I am not sad. as if she might some day convince herself, or fool herself. or convince others - the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you're sad. because her life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. she would fall asleep with her heart at the foot of her bed, like some domesticated animal that was not part of her at all. and each morning she would wake with it again in the cupboard of her rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. and by midafternoon she was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else. someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.

 

 

✚

 

 

Done