I despair in the face of thinking these thoughts, and feeling those feelings which invoke [or else mimic] the very same spirits which are known to make me despair…
At least by those few who care enough to know more of me than just my weary smile and burdensome comicality.
Therefore, I live in a limbo of halves and nothings: half musings, or none at all, half sentiments, or none at all, halves and nothings where there are these thoughts, and those feelings, with true agony to be experienced, known, felt, endured…
I despair now, for Despair is an old lover returning to me, returning for me. I cannot tell if she shall appear within days, hours, minutes, moments, or seconds; I only know that she is well on her way to ruin me again. She comes in halves, as my eon of nothings makes her arrival quite belated in hue of my fellow mourners.
I have mastered the art that is subduing and rejecting most which causes me anguish in this world, that which threatens to break me all over again and generate new cracks over the old ones I hastily pasted back together some time ago; I find this to be a habit many of us who know great sensation and abundant agony are all too eager, all too inclined, to adopt. Still, I have not eluded these types of existential considerations and tragic feelings to a state of entirety, as I myself am not entirely stoic.
It is in this that I wait in despair upon the shore for that very Despair which comes to haunt me, to haunt us (we miserable living things: us), in the innumerable aftermaths of earthly demises that are not necessarily our own. No matter how hard we try to keep these thoughts and those feelings at bay, they’ll always find a way to wash over us in the end.
Thus, I despair.