I can’t believe what I’ve become. There is nothing left of who I was. I can’t stand people, because they are so full of plans for the future. I can’t imagine having a future, and the sixty odd years I could live yet scare me more than anything in the world. I exist on the whims of my organs. The thought that they are all that stand between me and oblivion never leaves my mind. There are emotions I refuse to manifest and others that make themselves heard. Thoughts wash over me as opposed to being thought. Everything occurs outside of myself. I am not the one feeling emptiness. I am not the one trying to sleep. When I dream, I am often in a haven where there is no language and nobody can ask anything of me. I feel black, like I’m rotting from the inside.
I want to end completely, cease to exist and truly be nothing.