Am I ever going to have a normal life? Never. From being depressed and morbid then suicidal, to happy cheery and optimistic. It’s never going to end is it? I’m back to square one.

There is nothing I would live for.

Pardon the moroseness of this whole post, there isn’t going to be more happy-being-in-love posts, no gratefulness for the pace of the universe, no pictures. So swiftly the things that made us smile to the blank wall, when we wake up in the morning is taken away from us. The momentary pleasure, the orgasm of life, the quick death. What happened to being content with the way everything is, unmoving, things that are just there when you need it?

Who are they to judge us? Who are they to call us selfish? If you knew what it is like to live on the verge of extinction, waking up feeling like everyday is an obstacle, feeling like you’re the most insignificant little fuck there is to anyone’s life… are we so selfish? It is our right to die. Would you cry? No one would. We’re the forgotten, abandoned by god, crawling in a tunnel with no end. The euphoria of life only lasts a while. After the feeling is gone, the pain perpetuates how foolish you were, thinking there is actually light at the end, a lighthouse in the vast sea. When actually hope is bleak, because nothing is ever going to change.

Though after saying all this, an inch deep inside of me wants to survive. Just to see if things could change, if one day I could be genuinely happy. But the shit endures. The long lasting shit that smears all over your face till you can’t see or smell anything other than the feces. One day you’ll just snap and pull the fucking trigger. How tiring it is to wake up all hollowed, your eyeballs sinking into the prevailing tears residing in the socket.

I would give anything to live like a normal person. I wish I didn’t stare at weird spaces thinking of stories I would write when I get home. I wish I didn’t have such a low pain threshold. I wish my soul wasn’t beyond repair.

Me? I’m not smart, I don’t make witty comments, I can’t write as well as you and I’m a bad artist. Sometimes I’m just saying this so that people would say, ‘Oh no, you’re great.’ But sometimes I just curl up in bed crying because I know I am inadequate.

I am inadequate.

I’m simply not good enough that is why everyone leaves at the end.

Love dies, beauty fades, friends leave. And you will always be alone.

Labels: cruel, depressing, i'm sorry i can't be fucked, writing