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My brain should be fired for choosing songs for me to like.

You know how it is when you start listening to something new, and you’re not fully given over to the listening, but are doing it as a secondary activity to something like driving or sorting your socks or writing useless blog posts. And you hear a song that you like the sound of, so you listen to it a bunch of times until you get down the tune and overall sound, but you miss out on a word or phrase here and there…and later you find out like I did that one of my favourite songs at the moment is about a vaguely incestuous romance.

Well, I have done it again.
Except that this time the song is much darker in theme. About a parent who has limited contact with their child, and can’t bear it anymore. So they decide to kill the child and commit suicide because its the only way they feel they can stay together.

I feel very somber when I listen to it now.

And, just. Overall. I feel somber.

He is upset that my family is antisocial. I can’t do a thing about their collective natures. I give up thinking I can. It pains me too much to even think about trying. Even just saying words. Suggestions. Hints. Not doing it anymore. They are all adults. I can’t make anyone be or do what they will not be or do. And I’m done with being harmed for all my small efforts. It is out of my hands and I won’t have anything more to do with it if I can help it.
(Which I can’t, the parties involved being my family and my fiancée, but wishing I did not have to put up with this stupidity is easier than thinking too much about it and wanting instead to smash all their skulls open while the insides of my own skull reverberate with my Wolf’s screams.)

And at the same time there are her tears. I hate them. I hate them because I can see in my mind the picture of her sitting on the trashcan in my office and crying, and that monster whose fur ripples with flames suddenly forgets that we have to breathe (ever notice your body has paused in its breathing? that’s something), and he would like nothing better than to be able to hold her so she can stop crying and not be relegated to texting me about how upset she is because she doesn’t feel like she has someone else to talk to who isn’t already unstable or unable to cope with her sadness, which she views as petty and pointless compared to their “real” problems.

I know that feeling. I never would have said a word about it to a soul, but I would have wanted someone to hold me.
That’s why people think I lack expression. Because I don’t want them to see it when I feel like I am dying, so I must subdue my outward emotional expressions. Because it is better to feel nothing. And because I loathe my own sadness and helplessness. Nobody should see that, and if they did, why should they not want to strike me? Stupid wretched creature…I disgust myself.

It’s what she has said to me, really. And we are the same in that, too. Except she is not nearly as verbose, and lacks the underlying rage.

But I don’t feel that way about other people’s sadness. Disgusted, I mean. I would, if I could, absorb the sadness from them so they could at least feel content. Not happy, maybe. Just content. Calm. She laughed a little at me. That was something, I guess.

Even if I do feel more monstrous, I feel simultaneously more human when confronted with others’ sorrow. I would prevent or remove it. By violence, by fire, by osmosis, by quiet empathy…by ridiculous hyperbole…whatever means would enable you to stop crying for long enough to see that someone really is on your side.

But I didn’t know all this at work. I would’ve been in a much worse mood if I had. We kept seeing each other in the hall, and she kept looking at me with the sort of look you get when you have things to say to someone, but then never said anything…

At least she didn’t do what I would have done and decided after all to just keep it to herself. At least we aren’t really the same person.