A bowl in the kitchen

It felt as if I had stood there for ages, holding that bowl, not feeling the tension between my knee caps.
Eating has become tiring.
Why eat anyway. Why live.

On the table sat noodles in a bigger bowl and my thoughts dashed right in there.
Naked people, disturbances, God, cute things, my body, taste, luxury, amethysts falling off my ring in my dreams, j, j, God again, another j, frozen yoghurt, bright lights, voice, p, Satan, work, work work.
Entangled and twisted and they clung onto every strand of sticky noodle I picked up with white, careful chopsticks.

Selection.
Natural selection.
Do you blame it or do you blame the circumstances for making me this way.
No, I choose to blame myself.
Why blame God?
Take your pride and eat it, then vomit it out then swallow it all down again.
Repeat after me.
This is how we humans live.

They ask why be sad. Why wallow in this 'depression', in this 'grave you have dug with your own hands'?
Reality. It's because of reality.
You tell me to be happy in reality.
I can, but my mind is critical - it sees all the bad.

So do you blame the way you were made.
Do you blame God for giving you a mindset like this?
Is God hiding away, hiding so well that you give up?

Tell me what to feel.