I don’t see the point anymore. I have no dreams left for the world to take from me. I have myself, and I’m thankful for that, I’m attached to that. I’m glad I have 2 arms, 2 legs, a brain, etc. I understand the value there.
But really I don’t have much else. Sometimes I wake up and I feel like I was born yesterday. All my life choices seem meaningless, fruitless, all my experiences seem to point to no logical conclusion. So I feel nothing. I don’t know how to deal with people. People who like me. People who dislike me. People who want to hurt me. People who want to love me. I don’t know what I should do about any of it.
Someone I know told me that I create narratives about others, stories about their motivations and intentions. He’s right, I do. I’m just that jaded, its just a natural thing to me. Someone I know creates narratives about herself. I wonder…if we’re all essentially just telling ourselves some sort of story to go through the days? And if we are, what’s the truth? Is there nothing? No reasons at all?
What about God? What about morality? Is that arbitrary as well? Is that just another narrative I’ve told myself? And if so, is there a point to any of these narratives?
I used to think it was enough that God was a beautiful idea, and morality was a beautiful concept. That alone made it worth believing in, for me. It was admirable.
But I’m not admirable. I hate myself. I hate the person I see every day in front of the mirror. At night I dream of the real me. Little evil me. Part of me thinks bad things when I see people. Violent thoughts. Horrible thoughts that make me cringe.
It’s the part of me that looks at a split wrist and thinks ‘well, don’t need two wrists.’ Its the part of me that let an innocent person die in front of my eyes. It’s the part if me that wants to grin when I see homeless people, or others that suffer. When my co-workers dad died, this part of me wanted to try and rub salt in that wound.
It’s broken. This part of me is broken. It hates everything. It fears everything. It wants to ruin lives. My life too. It wants me to suffer. It wants me to inflict suffering.
I’m tired. I’m so tired of living with myself. So tired of trying to change. Trying to cope. Trying to live with myself. I can’t get close to anyone because of this demon. I can’t form a meaningful relationship. I am stuck. So stuck.
What’s the point of it all. A life full of restraint, starving myself. All so I can survive day to day, and die miserable and unfulfilled. What a joke.