A Moment

      I am exhausted. I am tired and sad. I am so many things right now, too many to try and categorize into a single idea. I have tried for years to find some happiness, and now I find myself in fear of losing the thought of one night of joy. One conversation. One thought and idea after another thought and idea, shared between two people. I don't want to lose that. It has been keeping me going. It has kept me from caving in and wanting to destroy myself. It has made me feel alive for the first time in I don't know how long. I have been sick and tired, but not in the physical sense. In the emotional. And I have been terminal.
      Every moment is another of fear and anger at the idea that I will be alone in my thoughts again, and that no one will care. I try in vain to convince myself that I am just being psychotic, a spazz like someone used to tell me over and over again. I tell myself  that they are just busy, and that they have other things to do. But for those small moments, in short conversations that over my lifetime will mean little to anyone other then me, in that moment I feel free and alive and am willing to share with everyone just how special I think I am.
      When the conversation ends, it is back to reality, and the thoughts that I am not good enough, and that everyone thinks I am horrible and the daily need to take pill after pill after pill to keep myself from caving in. There is nothing outside of that conversation. And it makes me feel sick and perverse and stupid for holding onto it so tightly. “I needed this” I want to say. “I needed this more then anything in the world, and although this may be just another conversation in your day, for some sick, psychopathic reason, it is the only one I have had.”
      I talk to other people. Lots of people. I tell them who I am, and what I do. I am not real to them though. I have to fake it. Pretend that I believe that in the end I have to be ready for my dreams to fail. In the end I have to think about what is going to support me. In the end. And if anyone would listen, would really listen, they would know that I hate endings more then anything else in the world. I hate the idea of things falling apart into oblivion and every conversation passing into dust.
      I hate this for the same reason I hate so many things in my life that have not turned out. I hate endings because in those moments I share with another, there is one that captures my attention. There is one that makes me feel so real and important and wanted and desired. And then it ends, and I am slammed back into someone else's reality. Some one who is not me, and who lives in a secluded nightmare.
      I am terrified of losing that conversation, of losing what few people who understand me. Because in those few conversations, there is one thing that I know more than anything in the world. My life begins, and my life ends with those conversations. Jeremiah Jaster is born, and Jeremiah Jaster is murdered. That is the end of every loving conversation that brings air into my lungs and makes me smile for the first time in so so long. All the rest of the time, is just me waiting in a shell, waiting for another conversation to make me wake up and feel.