First I am finally admitting my medical condition has got the best of me mentally and I very very depressed. I know all the literary giants were way fucked up, depressed suicidal alcoholics the lot of them, but I'm not the latter two (though I feel like a waste of space most of the time) and I don't drink, Second, Many people can fit this profile and cannot even spell cat. Thus these two don't correlate.
But admitting I am majorly depressed and truly at the point of not giving a shit anymore is a big step.
I have also decided there is a finite amount of love in the world. If someone becomes truly hateful and gets a grinch-like heart...well medically speaking, ya dead. Literately speaking, any love or love-potential they had, flies off to someone else. It's like the laws of physics concerning energy.
Finally, a little piece I wrote last night, slap-dash...I can't write actual pages of prose or poetry or songs or stories or noveles, just random shit. And I couldn't find my um-lau for the u in Kubler.
Grief is simply the manifestation of a heart ripped asunder and the thought, "I don't know how to exist in a world that you no longer exist in,"
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross was wrong- her stages were manifested supposedly at death. Sometimes you lose someone forever as they sit beside you. Kubler-Ross was either never in love - unrequited or real - broke up or broken up with, or gave everything to one person to leave nothing for others except that wall you built; Fortress around a heart-shaped black hole.
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