I’m not going to make it.
Sadness is coming to the realization that contentment is unachievable. It is constantly running through a vision of some alter version of yourself that you wished you were. It is realizing that your dreams truly are dead, and that you merely exist now.
Just another body taking up space. Breathing up all of the oxygen and giving nothing back.
I can’t stop. I can’t stop. It’s just a matter of how and when now.
I set goals. Lots of goals. Normal goals that otherwise normal people would be able to see through and complete. I’ve been trying to finish a Master’s Degree for 7 years now. I’ve been trying to move away from the coast for 15. I’ve been trying to lose weight for 20. I’ve only managed to grow more neurotic. I’ve only managed to develop additions that are beyond counterproductive. I finish nothing that I start. I am incapable. All of the positive advice in the world falls on deaf ears. Because I can’t be fixed by anyone else, but myself. However, that is just another goal.
Clearly, I do not love myself. I get no love in return. Or I should say, the type of love I desire. From a man, from friends, total strangers. Everyone is judged. Everyone has ill intent. People are liars when it comes to expressing themselves towards me. This is how my brain functions, unfortunately. The world is suspicious.
So if I learn to love myself, take better care of myself, know myself…will these thoughts change? Is my psychosis clouding my vision, or am I truly seeing people as their real self’s? Animals. Vultures. Traitors.
I am at that point where self destruction seems reasonable. Where starvation and pain is just the catalyst needed to start on the path towards being normal. Someone who is finally seen. Included. Wanted by all, not just the very few. Is this the compromise that is needed? Suffer and join the mundanes. Or do nothing and continue to feel like nothing?
I am tired of being whatever …this…is.
For me, the past is never resolved. No matter the issue or how long ago. My feelings towards one event or another remain. There is no conclusion. Only a slight pause until that day when a word, a dream, or a smell takes me back. There is no real escape. No conclusion.
Apathy is slowly consuming that part of me that was once empathic. Insightful. Curious. Dare I say ambitious.
Everything now is a chore beyond my mental and physical capabilities.
I just want to care enough to change into something better than this.