A piece from a small writing Iβve been working on about the struggle of day-to-day feeling.
I no longer know what to do. I am at a point where I am broken. I receive my happiness through little capsules at the same time every day. I long for somebodyβanybody, to love me for what is inside my head, instead of the shape of my physical form. But alas I feel it will never come. And yet unfortunately that is where I deeply believe true happiness is rooted, which I am currently at a loss. It is an odd time, not just for me, but for the world. Everything has slowly ceased to a halt, and no one is sure when it will begin to move again. This makes matters worse for my weakening mental state. At this point Iβm begging to feel something.
But Iβm tired of being used.
Because of this, I have decided to stop trying. It is a worthless matter to entrust so much of your being and energy into people that entrust nothing of themselves with you. I am with sorrow to say that I have given up for now. Because right now, I feel undeserving. And I know a part of me believes it will never come.
So I will focus my attention on different matters. Iβve started reading again, I forgot what books could do for your mind. Iβm noticing my surroundings and trying new things, trying to keep positive as everyone says. Itβs always trying to keep positive. Thatβs all you hear these days. Just be positive.
This usually isnβt a struggle for me. I honestly donβt know what happened.
But I find myself awake every morning at 4am, sitting in my dimly lit room staring at the dark shapes dancing on the ceiling, and wondering what went wrong inside my head. Wondering how I came to be how I am right now. This shell of a person, and where my person went, and most importantly, if I could ever get it back.
I find my cheeks damp and my pillows just as. Deep breaths I tell myself. As the morning light slowly slips in through the cracks from the window I try to coax myself to sleep with scenarios concocted by my own mind, in hope that it will form some relief of the ever constant weight of loneliness. But these played out are not real, and in the end they are only a fragment of my imagination. And the deep unsettling reality of this sinks in slowly as I fall asleep, waiting for a dream, for something, to help me feel again, at least, for a little while.
