I'm at that point. Neither breaking nor breathing is an option.

I dread action.


Bracketed from the rest, determined yet to demand attention, he sits, waiting, staring blankly into reality; he cries, tears of unwanted repentance, sorrowful--never feeling sorry for the choices. Regret is sin, "sorry" an eternal damnation.
I assume it's my fault; the crying, depression, anxiety, despair all results of my actions(?). Conditioning, perhaps, but the guilt, real enough, exists in the normative sense. If I'm not the cause, my presence certainly doesn't resolve (or appear to do so)--:neither a sign or hint as to the conclusion of my questioning, lips sealed physically, mentally, spiritually, nor the most minute reaction to my mere existence within your realm of being, solitary, in the most open manner possible, emotions and intellect fighting a battle of attrition.

(A smile, a laugh--simply a breath--: my reasons for arguing the infinite love of an omnipotent master. God, bog and the rest, ne'er be afraid of doubt; the single wink of an eye, so purposeful, reassures me of thy ineffable providence not once but infinitely.)

Mere seconds away from said reasons seem eternal, hours longer yet and days I fathom are incomprehensible beyond my ability to perceive the level of torture.

(falsely?) assuming fault,

wishing I could help,

longing for providence,