I'm surrounded by the stench of life and death, but the stink of rotting flesh in between is stronger. The dead reflectionless eyes of the autopiloted walking, talking, breathing corpses that surround me no longer inspire pity.
I don't want to help them anymore. I don't even believe they can be helped.
I have my own problems to deal with anyway. My own head is broken, and the bodge job repairs I've carried out on it will only take me so far before I have to take it in for a service, and I really don't want to do that again.
Sometimes, I sit on a bench at the harbour, watching the bar flies coming and going. I have a drink myself, but I'm not using it as medication, I just like the way I think when I'm mildly drunk. The bar flies are self medicating. They just want to stop seeing the noxious meat their lives are feeding on, the shit their lives leave on societys decomposing body.
I look at them, and I laugh at their folly. It only sounds like screaming when my heaving diaphragm breaks down some internal defense and I see I'm far more like them than I'd like to believe.
So I occasionally write little bits and pieces of almost meaningless text, trying to sort out my own thoughts, trying to reconcile the facts that I hate my species, but don't hate myself. That I can make excuses for my own behaviour, and believe them, but cannot forgive the same faults in others.
Then I take my anti-depressants, and worry about it tomorrow instead.
