‘Would you want to keep living if you were me?’
asks the suicidal woman in the novel I’m reading
to the imaginary reader of the journal she’s writing,
and I answer in thought, ‘Darling, I always
want to go on living. That’s me, it’s the way I’m wired.’
It’s not as if I haven’t had the bad stuff too. I won’t
enumerate, but if I did you’d see. So I have to think
it’s not about that. Not really. I suppose the answer
is that I’m not her — and if I was maybe I wouldn’t, but
I’m me. Stubborn, naive, idiotic me, who always wants life.
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