It must easier

To be not human. Sometimes I just sit for hours and watch my cat, he’s so happy and oblivious, I wonder how that feels. I know it’s a childish thought but it passes through my mind a lot. Our intellect is what makes us brilliant, but it’s also our biggest defect. We think much deeper and broader than any house cat. I’m not saying I wish I were a cat either. As easy as that would be I imagine it would be awfully dull, not that cats have a concept of dull.

I don’t know what stops me from doing it, I know my life doesn’t mean much, everyone who’s ever loved me and who would grieve my death will eventually die too, and no one will remember, no one remembers anyone in the end. So what does it matter? They’re are ninety-eight billion dead people, and how many of them are remembered? Only the ones who leave marks, but they’ll eventually fade too. Just like everything. Our culture, idols, failures as a human race, everything will cease to exist one day, and that’s something I find hard to ignore. It makes everything we do, and are, seem irrevocably pointless.

And I find it hard to find hope anymore, I’ve given up on the world. It’s beautiful, and vast, but it’s filled with poison, that will eventually kill everything, even itself. I feel we’re all slowly imploding, we fold in on ourselves until there is nothing left. No sign we were ever here. That I ever lived. That there was any hope, or love or sadness or anger. We’re slowing losing ourselves.

I’m just a teenage girl. I was never abused, or neglected. My life hasn’t been perfect, nor has it been hell. Like some of yours. But no matter who the person, or what the problem, the sadness still cuts just as deep. The feeling is still that same, deep seething anguish you can’t seem to shake. Once you’ve felt it, it never truly goes away. The drugs and the therapy help a little bit, more like a mask, or wall. But it won’t hold forever, it can’t. And it wants you more than you don’t want it.

It’s pushing at my barriers, I loose myself more often again. It’s becoming more frequent but for some reason I’m becoming less and less scared of it. Some days I feel I should just let it take me, but I can’t. There’s still that something that’s holding me there. It doesn’t feel like fear, or love. It feels more than an emotion. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how long it’ll last. It could be gone by tomorrow.