As I lie in bed, feeling unbearably ill from some virus or another, I tell the world to Fuck Off. I'm miserable. I have aches down my spine and into my legs, my body is chilled from what I assume is a fever, and I can't sleep. The one thing that very well might help is denied to me.
I think about the fairness of life, and how it isn't. Or maybe it is. That thought terrifies me. That maybe life is fair in how impartial it is, how it doesn't pick or choose who succeeds and who suffers. It could be any of us, really. Everything is so picked at random. And I'm scared that maybe the world doesn't give a damn whether you are a good person or a bad person; to the world you are either living or dead. It sees you in, and it sees you out.
As I toss and turn and feel like crap, I think of how it would be to have something worse; something like cancer, or AIDS, or whatever else life could send to devastate you. It frightens me to think of how one must feel then, and I do not blame anyone for choose death when life is proposed in such a horrific way.
I know, this is bleak. I've been trapped in this tiny room for too long, and it's taken its toll. I need the sun, the fresh air, the company of friends. I need it to keep me of sound mind.
Hopefully I feel better in the morning.
