lost, lonely, lovely

I do not feel any feelings. I vacillate between a depressing awareness of my fundamental lack and cheap moments of forgetting that I don’t think I’m a real person. I have a studio in New York City, but the walls feel like a box. I went to a club wasted and alone late last night and stared at the way the ceiling was cracked or the wallpaper and pretended to have to use the bathroom a lot. I remarked to another alone observer that everyone looked like animals. He disagreed. I think he was staring at the grinding girls. How I wish I could forget myself like that…and I have. But then these moments of awareness descend. And this isn’t even me depressed-depressed when all I google is which bridge to jump off of and musing over whether its best to shoot myself in the stomach since the worst would be to end up alive with a shot through the head. All this thinking is what kills me, but I feel too scared. If I had written that novel, been that artist, done something with this life yet…I’m so young and I know this is terrible and I even hate myself for hating myself. I have suffered, yet now I am my torturer.