Modes

Is it better to feel, but almost always feel only hurt and loneliness, or to have no feelings, and in this supreme insensitivity hurt other people? This seems to be the decision given to me to make. One is unbearable, the other unconscionable.

And there is more. Like this, I am nothing. No ambition, no special skill or insight, no passion. Lacking condfidence, I feel cheated by time even as I dread the passage of hours. Yet too much piqued, too medicated, and I am an irate fireball of charm and terror ablaze in the other direction.

If only some systematic amount of such curatives could be released with my veins, the amount or timing over which I had absolutely no control, then perhaps I could find a balance, a thirst for life and the confidence to face it, without the accompaniment of amnesiatic madness.