Is this life?

June 14th, 2017by Grass

Sometimes I want so badly just to do something. To create. Instead of that, I do nothing. I sit here in my lonely hole, and try my hardest to empty my head and hands of everything that troubles my soul. My words don’t even come out right anymore. As the years pass, I grow more reclusive and distant from myself. It’s as if I’ve almost disappeared sometimes. Am I even real? Am I even alive? And what does living mean anyways?

I posted something here a couple years back, and its as if nothing has changed. I’m just as miserable. If anything is different, its that I’m angrier now. I’m so angry sometimes it spills over and seeps into every corner of my life. I take it out on everyone and everything around me. Is this all I can be? I’m so tired of myself and the person I’ve tricked myself into being. I just want an escape.

Drugs are a nice temporary relief from the inside of my head, I’m particularly fond of hallucinogenics. It seems to be the only way I can think outside of this black hole that is my mind. More than anything, I just want the silence that I find in sleep. Sleep seems to evade me though, and the sadder I am, the harder it is for me to find it. I keep pushing myself through the constant bullshit, and dreary day to day struggle, but for what? What is the benefit? And what benefit do I even provide? I am a toxic waste of space, with nothing to offer but my own fucked up opinions and thoughts, that are irrelevant anyways. I just want everything to stop. I just want it to go away.

I’m tired of working a 9 to 5 bullshit job for a shitty pay. I’m tired of forming crappy relationships that I put my all into to only receive fake smiles and fake love. I’m tired of friendships that don’t go anywhere, and I’m tired of stagnant life. I’ve been told my whole adolescence, and adulthood, that it gets better. The irony is, is that it gets worse. The worst part of all of this, is that I created this for myself.

So maybe I do create, but my creations are the destruction of myself. Everything I attempt to build crumbles, and crushes the little bit of hope I have beneath it. What more can I do?

I’m over it. I’m throwing the towel in. Fuck it. I don’t care.

We all die anyways, right? So why not get it over with now.

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