despair

I feel the need to write again. I feel in the depths of my soul tha tlife has forged for me nothing but regrets and sorrow.
Tonight my soul calls out for my Mother to wipe my tears. Even she has turned from me. I can only hope her god will be there for her because I will never be. I can remember calling out to her in the depths of my crisis, but when she came to me I was faced with my worst fear. Her rejection.
I feel my cause becoming more final. I think of the future and all I see is darkness, a deep mist that obscures all that should have been and must soon be.
I wish it didn't all hurt so much. I wish it could be done in such a way so as to not hurt those few that I have left to me. There is too much pain as it is. I hear a great wail of despair in my mind. I know that it is my own. I wish I could scream and rage that it ends this way, but I haven't even the energy for that any more. Living with this has taken everything that I had. I have been calling out for help to anyone who would listen. Maybe it has been too obscure? Nobody has noticed.
Is it always this way? Does every soul at some time or another feel this terrible emptiness? Am I simply weak that I cannot simply get over it or is there some facet of my nature that makes it more unendurable and unforgettable?
I supose it doesn't matter. Time moves ever onward and what has been will probably never be again. The repetition of history is a doom, not a blessing. And how could I ever forget so that that doom may come to pass?
Oh, how lovely the might have beens! What would have happened if my family had been a little more understanding and loving? What might have happened if I had been born into a world where I could be myself and not hated because of my nature? What might I have become if I hadn't been the instrument of my own undoing?
And these screams are silent, a soundless movement of my lips. Nobody hears and even if they did, what could be done? I am tired of this existence. I am not dumb; to be treated as if I say nothing of meaning is unforgivable. Those who have used me will wither and die in their own time, alone, for they have left Truth to slip away unnoticed. I care not if it is unmourned, because truth, like my love, would have been for everyone without limit if it had been allowed.
Maybe that's why I feel this pain so keenly. I am passionate in love and in hate. I put no restraints on either. Perhaps if I allowed myself to restrain love I would not have burned out so quickly, my vitality slipping away to fuel an unquenchable fire. I cannot see, though, how anyone can limit honest love. That is what wounded me so deeply on so many counts: love being unnaturally limited. Now I am dead inside and running short of love. I merely wait for the appointed time for it all to be ended. It is too long for one so young yet too old to wait for death. I chafe at the delay, but it is inevitable. There are too many things to be done and I haven't the strength to do them. I will end up simply waiting for the enevitable clarion call of oblivion to carry me away with it all undone.