Strangulation and Insufflation

Alyxandr is dead. Not literally, but he became irrelevant. We got tired of his tyrannical hold on us. Now they have a new tyrant. Me. Me, and my biting sarcasm and how little a damn I give. I just want to die. They think that I can lead them. I can't lead myself.

I have been snorting the ground up remnants of way-aged medicine. It numbs me. Frees me. The navigators don't know. I have won.

The forest looks more grim than ever. Death and pestilence seem to follow me by my boot heels. I am frightened. The end beckons.

Lift me, yon mariner o'th'wind.
Pick me up.
Soar, soar, then drop me.
Drop me on the cold, hard dirt.

I don't think death is the answer, but I think it is an answer. Not the answer everybody wants, and most certainly one that would lead me to fail a test. Life is just a test. Or a game. Maybe it's a game.

Maybe it's a game jacked up onto the hardest circumstances, where everybody is against you, even when they are with you, and everybody is essentially fighting for scraps, whether they live in the most lavish of estates, or whether they excrete in the rags they live in because they are too full of mange to control themselves.

I want to quit. For whatever reason, I can't.

Maybe it's some sense of duty. Maybe I'm scared. I don't want to lead these people but they demand it of me now.

Why can they not govern themselves? I have no clue.