From being pulled inward like a whirlpool:
I feel like I could never kill myself properly when other people are too busy still existing. I don’t really care about my own life; I’m a glass where streams either pass through or bounce off. But that’s not what does it—I simply don’t want my existence to end because I don’t want theirs to end. I get a hold of some wood, some words, some strings. My sense of self is already so loose, and I float up and up, skimming the pages people press into me without ever trying to gather a book of my own.
What fresh brand of depression is this? Is it the selfish kind?
