The Surrealism of the Self

Sometimes I think about my suicide note and all the names I put in there. All the people I thought I loved and all the things that matter now. There’s nothing quite like life slipping away to make you feel the things you need. There’s nothing quite like time passing to make you realize that you don’t need them anymore. Which I guess is the surrealistic part: the alchemy of despair into indifference. I would have died for you, and now I don’t even know your name. That’s the surrealistic part. Is knowing now who I am without you, when at one point you defined who I was. I was no one without you, yet here I am: someone, all alone. I am a conundrum without you. A paradox. An enigma of the self, without you by my side, yet somehow not yet dying. But I could have. And I tried. I cannot live without you, but I cannot die without you, either.

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