I want to be something simple. As simple as waking up in the morning. I want to be as simple as a daily routine—the mundane, dull, eventless happenings that seem to matter more when you can no longer experience them. I don’t want to be special. I just want to be free.
Being wanted and desired by someone can become so exhausting. It isn’t as disgusting as it is sickening, but it evokes the same response. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m about to keel over and die. And all that specialness is gone.
I want to be your morning cup of coffee, or the sound of heavy traffic. I want to be your unread book collecting dust on the shelves. I want to be that lamp post you pass by when you walk along the street. I want to be forgettable—simple, resistible, even easily replaced.
There’s nothing I’d want more right now…
Because there’s nothing that can hurt me more—than to be special to a dying man.
When you’re dead and you’re gone, I’ll never learn how to feel this way again.