I suppose in the end, everyone's a hypocrite, no matter how hard we try to avoid it. The point is, I do care. The point is, I pick up on my own hypocrisy and hate myself for it. I recede.

Today, I spoke to the Gypsy. The one who went over the hills and stood by the River Clady and won the heart of a lady. The Whistlin' Gypsy. The one that jumped out of my childhood dreams and wove me around indelibly into post-adolescent schemes and left me hanging by a thread in the tapestry. He makes the world explode with angels in his wake. They appear on rooftops and trees and walk beside me. Life is a ride on air and after all this wasted time, I find there's still nothing to confide but the same old story. The difference: no one who will be my confidente. The Gypsy Rover is gone.

"You know nothing is impossible, Little Girl," the angel says.
"Most things are not. If we're talking about Time, though, we both know I can survive Eternity."
(I'm not like Quentin Compson.)
The angel bows its head.
But surviving Eternity is nothing much when it is impossible to survive myself. I don't believe a thing about people except their hostility, their apathy, their compassionless being, their utter lack of consideration for other people.

I discard them. I become what I abhor. But I am aware. I am a corrosive substance. I eat myself from within. The fact that I am unloveable kills me. The fact that I am a hypocrite kills me even more. I live in spite of these things. And yes, the information collects.

In a year from now, none of this will matter, no? All right, I've made my decision. Again. And of course, the best course of action is the one that is Right and the one that creates of me a masochist. But no matter. It is the most considerate of other people. Either way, I lose. So I will disappear because this is what is best. I will be there only when people want me to be there and that is only when I am needed for use. Fine. For what else was I created other than advantage? I understand. I am forgettable, except as a resource.

No matter. I will hope that people get well. I will neglect my own well-being. Nothing can hurt me now anyway because two-and-a-half years ago, I said "Yes" when someone asked me if I was all right with having my heart shredded. I said "yes" because "no" would have been selfish and she was happy. I said "yes" because it was the right thing to do.

But now I wonder what is right and what is wrong and where I fall on the spectrum. Sometimes you have to be selfish just to keep surviving. I don't survive. I exist. There's a difference.

Just don't remind me of my inadequacy; I am already quite aware. Don't remind me of my ugliness; I'm aware of that, too. Just don't pretend that these things aren't so. Please, don't pretend because that only gives me false hope and when it vanishes, I lose yet another crucial piece of myself and although that doesn't matter in the long run, it matters to me because I am all I have.

Perhaps I am just unlucky. No doubt, I am a fool. But like the Tin Soldier said, "Time goes by." That, it does. But I want to cherish every moment before I die and I would rather die after having lived and not merely having existed. But that isn't my call. Some things are left to the Fates. Some things are left to God.

I have surrendered.