there's always these bits and pieces that stick to me, despite how awful my memory is.
i don't remember why, but one time my mom told me about people who lay in bed for hours and hours, unable to close their eyes. they experience severe depression; the simple movement takes too much energy. and so they remain.
how does anyone know that? i sometimes wonder. did anyone come to check on them? did they ever get out of bed to recount what happened, or did they stay there until they died, a festering corpse for the landlord to find only when rent is overdue?
i can open and close my eyelids. i don't remember getting out of bed, but i know it must've happened.
could i die like that -- wasting away into nothing? would it be much different from my own life now?
i've been thinking about it more and more often. it's not an exact idea or plan, or even a memory of the other times i tried, but there's a question i keep asking myself: would anything be different?
i don't really exist, i think. i'm some sort of object that pretends to be human, and does a bad job of it.
my existence has no impact. an unmarked sheet of paper, the smooth surface of a river rock. the only reality to note is when i can no longer close my eyes.