Leaving Shanghai

Aug 7th, 2008

My lover swore she would leave me if I hurt myself. I have taken to drinking these days... alot. In my most desparate moments, I choose this escape more and more often.

I tend to care less and less. I never see her, and when I do, its muted and dull. It's safe and distant and worrysome. I feel like an ex-husband in prison who she reluctantly comes to visit just for appearances, to ease her own conscience, and to ensure I don't lose all hope and do something stupid.

Part of me knows I'm wrong. She tells me I'm wrong, and she says it with words sweet and genuine and convincing. But part of me knows I'm right, too. And that part laps up the patronizing glances like dew from the spines of a mid-desert cactus, but with such a bittersweet taste and so little nourishment that all my desires are withering into nothing.

I fantasize about Leaving Shanghai in Las Vegas style, through self-neglect and too much alcohol. I've been reluctant to address medical problems. It's difficult enough as it is, always having to ask someone for help. I always need a sherpa to go to the hospital. But these days, I don't want anyone's help. I don't want it because I don't feel alive and I don't feel worthy.

If she doesnt want to help me, then why should anyone else? What is the inherent value in a person's life if the people who love them the most only patronize them? So I feel stupid to ask anyone, and I feel unable to return the kindness they give to me, too empty and too hopeless to effulge any comfort or glow that I once was able to give.

They tell me I look tired. Everyone tells me I look tired. I look different. I look something. They say it with a mournful disdain, disappointment seething out of every syllable. Never a kind word, at least not between the lines. I can see it in their eyes which are afraid to connect with the black holes in my face which once used to shine with a passionate radiance. They are thinking, "Where is this Bob who used to hold me? Where is this Bob who used to give me strength and inspiration?"

And I know its true. I am more and more pitiful. I try to be happy. I try to find reasons and rhymes and energy from the people who once gave me hope, but I'm too far gone. And they see me coming, like a vulture looking for scraps, ready to devour a soul to keep myself alive. I'm obvious and borish.

So, things go unattended. Important? Maybe... We'll see... If I end up Leaving Shanghai, I guess they were important...

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