Sometimes I become sick of myself. Not depressed mind you, not suicidal, nothing dire. Just a little sick of myself, the way you might become sick of a friend who has outstayed his welcome in your home. You think, OK, I've seen quite enough of this person now, and you can remove yourself. But I cannot--I think--remove myself from myself. Not without resorting to violence or years of some eastern meditation practice, which, no thank you to both, thank you.
If there was only some way to say, So long, self, and walk the other way. I could come back in a week or two, perhaps even a few days, depending on the grievance, the level of annoyance with my actions, words, etc. I cannot change who I am, I do not think I necessarily want to. Perhaps I am looking for what is easy. But I suppose there is what is easy and what is right.
Even this inner monologue makes me a bit queasy. Snap out of it, man! There are worse people than you who are worse off. Bastards who loathe themselves, who wake up thinking, Damn it all, I woke up. And we're not there. We're not to that point. I suppose it's natural to want an out of body vacation, I hope it is at least. That I am not alone, walking on the pavement of a hundred thousand people who would love nothing more than to step out of their skin and pick it up after they've caught their breath. But I guess this, here, on the inside, this will have to do for now.
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