As I lay in bed last I thought about how many people have tried to help me along the way, have helped me, a few a whom are no longer alive. Way more people have tried to help me John, than have harmed me, the harm just seems to leave the deeper mark. Anyway, I’ve always felt such guilt that others were wasting their lives on me, that I was a waste that I was unworthy but last night I didn’t feel that guilt or that I was a waste. I didn’t necessarily feel worthiness but I did feel a kind of responsibility, I guess, at least a desire to try and not let you all down. Then I felt the smallest flicker of not wanting to let myself down, you know? Because somewhere in all this, I’ve managed at times to fight for myself for some reason, pride for my life for some reason. And I survived for some reason. And here I am, still for some reason. And me not knowing that reason doesn’t diminish it or invalidate it, or disprove it’s existence. And that’s what I’m going with today
It does somethin’ to you, not to be touched in any positive way for so long. You begin to vacillate between bein’ repelled by touch and seeking it out in any form, even the most negative. Out here, you - you’re the only touch that soothed me. I know that’s not proper.
I don’t think I can do this. Everything out here is so…complicated, so much pain, so much hate. I just think, I may just be..too broken you know. Just too broken One of the things that kept me going on the Row, maybe the thing was the hope that you’d get out one day Daniel. But that’s just me you know, me living through you. I never felt envious, not one time. I was grateful to have something to hope for. Even it was for the life of another person. Maybe, especially because of that. And when I realized that, when I became conscious of that hope in that 7 by 9 hellhole I just thank God for it. Everyday Daniel, everyday, because it gave me something to live for. But now that’s over with, that time’s past. And I’m not of this world now, this is your world and you lying in a coma and you can’t deal with it anymore. You just too tired and you ready to see what’s on the other side. Well this is not my place to tell you what to do bro, it’s just not my place. But whatever you decide, I’m still going to love you D. Always, forever and always.
There is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be the most dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he will still hope. But read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is unnecessary—why should such a thing exist? Doubtless there may be men who have been sentenced, who have suffered this mental anguish for a while and then have been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able to relate their feelings afterwards.