I beg God to stop trying to teach me lessons, for I will never be able to learn…

The dead and dying … the scars outside and in … how many marks will I be given until that time in which I, myself, pass? I’m at the front of the line to witness the end of all things, but how can I appreciate anything when nothing can be internalized, no subject can be learned, and I remain indifferent to the disfiguration of it all?

The tragedy of whatever composes my essence is that I cannot appreciate, cannot recall on demand, and cannot recognize the importance of any event. My life is simply that of a hungry, unthinking mass; I simply gravitate toward what is beneficial in the moment or what seems to be the most hedonistic activity I can engage in at that time. Any information I’ve “learned” in the past is not considered, for it cannot be internalized or properly recalled – should I have ever truly learned it in the first place. I stick my hand on the hot stove, seeing if it still hurts, or, more accurately, whether I can summon the memories of the pain such action caused in the past. I cannot recall those lessons in subjectivity that I once thought I had learned. Tabula rasa at all turns…

Eventually, I will walk alone, with all remnants of my family – in particular – having turned to dust. I will not be able to summon the memory of appreciation, having never had the memory to begin with. God has made it obvious as of late that my time with them is running out, yet I cannot make them important, I cannot do more than assign cold prose to my life with them, and I will never appreciate them in the way that a neurotypical would their own. My skin, my heart, my brain, my soul all scar deeper as my family withers and dies, and one day I will look back at these scars, not truly understanding why I am scarred … not truly understanding the joy, the elation, and the sorrow that those scars hold secret beneath the skin. All I can do for now is to pray. I beg God to stop teaching me lessons, for I will never be able to learn…