"What do you think of when you are alone?" M asks everyone at the table. One more topic, one more question in the regular discussion.
"I think of past relationships, interpersonal interactions, and my failures in them. They just float to the surface."
S thinks of how to save some more money, to make life easier for mom and sister, and self, and
ensure a decent future.
P thinks of hopes and dreams and what to do in the future to get where they want to go.
N thinks of ways to make more money. Of whether they are doing the job they should be, or whether they need to do something else to make themselves happy.
J spends the time it took everyone to answer in scratching at their forearm, peeling off a layer of skin; passes the question when the turn to answer comes around. "Not gonna ruin everyone's evening," J mutters internally, "not gonna say."
J dreams of death.
J spends alone time fantasizing about the various ways death can occur or be made to occur. J spends nights in bed dreaming of jumping off tall buildings, of ODing on substance, of sleeping
pills and bleeding veins.
J spends auto rides to the meets fantasizing about being run over and of instant oblivion. J spends drinking time thinking of blessedly not waking in the morning. J sees every face at the wake, reads every obituary, hears every eulogy. And HATES the fact that none of it is doable as things stand.
J hates reality.
"I think of past relationships, interpersonal interactions, and my failures in them. They just float to the surface."
S thinks of how to save some more money, to make life easier for mom and sister, and self, and
ensure a decent future.
P thinks of hopes and dreams and what to do in the future to get where they want to go.
N thinks of ways to make more money. Of whether they are doing the job they should be, or whether they need to do something else to make themselves happy.
J spends the time it took everyone to answer in scratching at their forearm, peeling off a layer of skin; passes the question when the turn to answer comes around. "Not gonna ruin everyone's evening," J mutters internally, "not gonna say."
J dreams of death.
J spends alone time fantasizing about the various ways death can occur or be made to occur. J spends nights in bed dreaming of jumping off tall buildings, of ODing on substance, of sleeping
pills and bleeding veins.
J spends auto rides to the meets fantasizing about being run over and of instant oblivion. J spends drinking time thinking of blessedly not waking in the morning. J sees every face at the wake, reads every obituary, hears every eulogy. And HATES the fact that none of it is doable as things stand.
J hates reality.
