It seems obvious that I
place too much credence
in the concept of going out
with a bang. Also, I often
get this sinking feeling
that too many people,
especially closer
friends, think of me as
a sad and pathetic man.
Fortunately, part of me
believes that that isn’t
the perception in reality,
that it’s at least more
related to my own
low regard of myself.
Which, also fortunate,
isn’t the most consistent
notion that I have of myself.
Anger and hatred are putrid.
I’ll add to that initial word
prolonged. Prolonged anger.
Probably any kind of anger.
Putrid. Stunting. Bad.
But there is nothing more
stifling—and therefore I
could use the word putrid,
but would, I suspect, be
more accurate with
using the word pathetic.
Or tragic. Nothing is
worse, let’s just say,
for me, than that
putrid feeling I too
often have of myself.
The worst it always
does is stop the world
(the only one, my world,
which isn’t really the
only world, but,
let’s face it, truly is).
