One

Most of the time I just feel like I’m fading away. Like I’m just a ghost of who I once was. Like I’m ashes instead of fire.

I just feel so hollow and empty, and there’s nothing to fill the void. God, I used to be so passionate and full of life. Now I’m just a dumb kid with big dreams. Hopeless dreams, bigger than life itself. And knowing I’m not going to achieve any of them used to hurt me, but now it’s more of a dull ache.

The worst part is that nobody even sees it. I’m so fucking good at lying that nobody questions it when I say that I’m fine. Not that anybody ever asks how I’m doing, anyway.

I’m constantly swinging between absolute numbness and agonizing sorrow, and I can’t tell which is worse.

A recipe in baking called for chopped walnuts, and I’m pretty sure I stared at my wrist for a solid 3 minutes with the knife in my hand wondering how much it would hurt to just slice it open. Obviously, I wouldn’t ever do that in school, but the impulse to go home and do it was so strong it lasted until 8th period.

Instead of paying attention and participating in the workshop today in creative writing, I sat there and wondered what people would do when I kill myself. Nobody would care, but sometimes I try to pretend that someone would. I mean, it doesn’t matter, I can’t connect with people anyway. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to have someone around and not grow to hate them.

It’s weird, because logically I can understand people. I’m completely, totally unbiased and am able to wrap my head around any and all situations and can see every side to an argument. Logically. I would be a great psychologist. But emotionally, I just can’t connect with people, I guess. I can’t really word it because I don’t really understand it myself.

I read somewhere that holding a warm beverage in your hands stimulates the same parts of your brain that things like hugs do. And I like to tell myself I’m not lonely when it’s 3 am and I’m sobbing over a cup of hot coffee, and holding onto it like my life depends on it. I don’t understand myself, but I understand everything else, and I can’t tell if that makes me wise or a fucking idiot.

I still haven’t started my short story, and I’m not sure if I will. The weekend is coming up, and my time here is running out, I can sense it. Like old people when they’re dying. I can feel it.

You know, some people see my ability to understand most concepts, ideas, and arguments as a gift. I could be a great psychologist, philosopher, and writer. I could be great. I have the potential to be something amazing. But I would give up being able to understand everything if it meant being able to understand myself. I’d rather the madness surround me than be inside me.

Another one that’s kind of text-heavy, but whatever. I don’t feel like naming these anymore, so I’m just going to number them from now on. Sorry.