Who am I writing for? Why am I writing? I don't want to write anymore. I don't feel the urge to start cutting on my arms just to see the blood flow either. I know what's under the thin layer of "resignation" skin that I so carefully caress. Every time I see or hear something about a child dying I turn the other way, stop reading or listening, lest I fall apart.
I am handling my life as best I can. I am not joyful, gushingly happy, frantically positive but I'm walking and breathing. I have things to do to keep me busy enough to give me time to focus on today with out falling into the "life sucks" abyss. And believe me, life does suck - even when you think you are having fun.
Other people are just as good at fooling themselves about reality as I am. I'm not the only person who ignores pain and truth. People believe in life after death because they don't want to believe it's the end either for themselves or someone else. But since no one actually knows what happens after your last breath it's easier for them to pretend. I choose, in this matter, not to pretend. I have just resigned myself to knowing I'll find out one day. Getting to heaven is not a reason to be a good person. You should be good no matter where you end up.
Anyway, I can't write everyday like I promised. And who, exactly, did I promise? Who reads these words? I know who read the ones I wrote after Mary left. I also know they stopped reading them because it hurt them too much to read it. So, in the end I was writing to myself anyway. I supposed it helped because I thought I was writing to the world. And I wanted everyone in it to know exactly how much worse the world was without Mary. I wanted to scream it at the top of my lungs. But no body was listening in the end.
It's not that I don't want the world to know how much it hurts not to have Danny in it. It's that I can't stand the pain of describing it.
So I won't. He understands.