I haven’t been good at anything lately. Not good at reading or writing, or watching, or walking, or talking, or being friends, or being social, or being headstrong, or being loved, or being able to be me. I’m not good at anything anymore. I’ve lost the sense of life I had. It’s even hard to just get up in the morning and convince myself to brush my teeth and get something to eat, because all I ever want to do is collapse on the bed and die for a while.
I say I want to die but I’m so afraid of death at the same time. I’m afraid of its inevitability, I’m afraid of how death is even harder than being alive, and that’s just something I’m not prepared for. Yet I go about every single day, pretending that there won’t be a day that’ll be my last.
I feel like I’m not going to be able to make it. I’m lying under a huge pile of emotional stress that I just cannot take. I complain, and whine, and don’t deal with life. I’m not the good person, though.
Don’t mistake this for self-pity, this is self-hatred. This is hatred of life. This is what immaturity looks like. This is what sensitivity looks like. This is what weakness and depression and cowardice looks like. Nobody ever speaks of this side of the world. Nobody talks about the people who fall and can’t get back up; the world doesn’t talk about the hurt and the injured. Or the people who dig their own damn holes, and fall, and blame everyone else around them for it – we did not ask for this – we have lost our self-control. This is our fate, and we have given up on it.
We forget there aren’t always happy endings for everyone; love isn’t promised to you – life is not a destination, it is the journey; and nobody tells you that it hurts like hell. It hurts like hell and after a while the hurting fades away but it doesn’t heal. Time does not heal anything.
I’m still hoping for my little magical moment, but the thing is every time I fly, I find myself falling just as fast, just as hard as my wings brushed against the soaring wind – life ends. Life ends.
This is not a planned out article or anything. This is me complaining to a blank page of paper. No sympathizer quite like it.