synecdoche

Everything is more
complicated than you think.
You only see a tenth
of what is true.
There are a million
little strings
attached to every
choice you make.
You can destroy your life
every time you choose.
But maybe you won't know
for 20 years
and you may never,
ever trace it to its source.
And you only get one
chance to play it out.
Just try and figure
out your own divorce.
And they say there is no fate,
but there is,
it's what you create.
And even though the world goes
on for eons and eons
you are only here for a fraction
of a fraction of a second.
Most of your time is spent being
dead or not yet born.
But while alive,
you wait in vain
wasting years
for a phone call
or a letter or a look
from someone or something
to make it all right.
And it never comes,
or it seems to,
but it doesn't really.
So you spend your time
in vague regret
or vaguer hope that something
good will come along.
Something to make
you feel connected.
Something to make
you feel whole.
Something to make
you feel loved.
And the truth is
I feel so angry.
And the truth is
I feel so fucking sad.
And the truth is,
I've felt so fucking hurt
for so fucking long.
And for just as long,
I've been pretending I'm okay
just to get along,
just for--
I don't know why.
Maybe because no one wants
to hear about my misery
because they have their own.
Well, fuck everybody.
Amen.