I hate how I sometimes get so "poetic" or "deep." Intense philosophical thoughts of metaphors that only prolong my suffering in some cases. Watching and waiting for the candle I lit in Miss Kitty's honor. Knowing it should die out soon, but it almost doesn't seem like it'll be gone. Sound familiar?
I hadn't expect to go home with an empty cat carrier. I knew it was coming soon, I knew it would happen, but I didn't realize it'd be that day. When talking to the vet, I knew he was saying we should put her down to avoid her suffering further, and I knew he was right, but I wasn't ready. I hadn't spent any time with her the previous day. Been gone since morning and come home after midnight only to discover her excrete bloody stool. Next thing was to the vets. When he said his peace, I asked for time alone. My ma felt this was time to convince me since I hadn't seemed willing to part, but deep down I already decided. It was already decided. I blew out her wick.
I feel like one of the things about depression is that it's so easy to continuously break your own heart over and over again. And then when your artistic, you don't stand a chance against yourself.
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