But...

It is only now that I fully understand the implication of that last message. Finally a dot to end it all... I suppose. For what good is goodbye if the maybe still lingers? For me and them both. And somehow maybe it is best that I feel the disappointment this way. No contracts, no commitment, nothing to bind us with one another. Just another dowry piling up at the temple of wayward hearts.

Now I need to accept another true fact: I will never be the one who knocks. I will never be one to win. I will never be one to succeed. All the efforts up to this point reduced to being just one amongst so many. Jack of all trades, mediocre of one. Functioning at this current stage proves inadequate. The sting still persists. I could do something to help ease the bruising, but there are not a lot of options. I could eat or drink or smoke or drug myself to oblivion, but that has never been my nature. Perhaps because this agony that I am marinating on is a relatively new feeling, if one considers half of a life still technically fresh. I could push it further and hope shit sticks, but this argument that I need to crawl in order to stand is bewilderingly preposterous. People face adversity not because of the void and lack thereof, people face adversity due the void and its sake thereof. So at this point if there is a feeling of absence of reciprocation from the other party, there is no need for me to adjust my standing and risk having it worse than it already is. It is not the end of something just yet. Not fully. But to bounce from back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back losses, it numbs you to a point of indifference, and it shows, to others, family or workplace and et cetera, plus you also run the risk even more by snowballing it. Right now, at this point's pause, when will I stop and start to think how bad can the next loss be? For all these were ultimately mine to own. The price to pay for trying to do the right things, the way things should be handled by any other soul out there. If only I stopped earlier and start realising that what I should have been asking about is the right price.

It is no surprise that people at my workplace know me as a simple and laconic jinx. I have evolved into this caricature over time, and I can only tolerate it for so long before something gives in. I do not despise it. In truth, I mainly use the facade for my own personal self-preservation, which kind of comes across as a bit too cliché to even say that, so maybe call it a little accident, even though recently I have wavered in faith at the belief of accidents. Nothing seems to be accidental any more. This world, in all its encompassing reach, can hurt you in a myriad of ways, and it would not be considered accidental if it was at all expected. One can never be truly free of pain, you either have it or you do not, and the absence of it can be equally, if not wholly, worse and detrimental to one physiologically. I trust my odds to break through that barrier, that prison of predestination, because entertaining that thought as much as I have will always remain banal and fruitless. Tomorrow I return to work like a diligent worker ant; a valuable contributing member of the thankless society to drive the whole economy back from the brink of utter despair, only to break even, not even. Morrissey once fluttered about decreeing today that life for us is simply giving and not taking, and this whole circus show is ours and still owes us a living, all the while mocking each and everyone of us of our misguided aggression. If there is anything for me to take from that is that true freedom trumps our own personal injustices.

When my mother today was discharged from the hospital, she came with news that my sister is also having a surgical operation taken somewhere. Not much more needs be said. Our relationship has always been tame. But in my mind having two people I care about having been through what they have been puts me in even more dire straits. Sepsis and viraemia and benign cysts and hayfever, the list gets longer the more we age, and the more I live, the more I twitch at understanding what the point is of reaching that finish line. I will always be a survivor, no matter what situation arises, but I also want to take away my longevity piece by piece, to shorten this sojourn. If there was a reason to want to stay it should be a Tristessa of my own, in order to enable me to be partly what I need to be should I ever feel the need to be. However that fantasy will be buried along with the rest of its ilk in that sandbox bucket of mine. Even I do not deserve birds that fly too low for I am absent wings of my own. Aim low would be a good alternative if my current social value was not pittance. Tristessas will only want to aim to fly high. This is why the message I have not received told me all I need to know without having read it. What good will saying goodbye do for us both if the maybe persists? I am the last bastion of hope for misfits and the downtrodden and excommunicados, and unless these people become one with the theory, we were never meant to be.