Still.

I want to be better than this. So badly. Whatever this is, whatever I am right now, it doesn't seem good enough. Because no one ever cares unconditionally about anyone. It just doesn't work like that. And no one really cares that much, so I must not be good enough.
I must not be enough. I want to be enough. I hurt so badly. I wish I saw the world differently.
I will keep being better. I will get better. I will rely on no one, expect nothing from everyone, and stop hoping for someone. Its better this way. To hurt silently, to stop complaining, and just work on getting better.
No one needs to know me at all. And for those who do, I'm sure they don't care, and would rather they didn't.

Nothing

I just don't know anymore.

Identity

There's a theory of identity, that states you are more closely related to those who are dear to you now that you are to you in 30+ years or so. I mean, look at 10 year old you. Do you really get them? Do you relate to them, and think the same way as them, and worry about the same things you did then? Now how about your friends? Which is closer?

Some nights, I just hurt. I just sit and listen to music that we liked. And I cry some. Turns out you were a big part of me. And you killed that piece of me. I have to make a new person now, all by my self.

No one ever asked why I loved you. They though you were an ass. They never asked why I would date someone like you. You were kind. You cared about me. You never gave me a single reason to be afraid. You never hurt me. Justin, my dear, were the best human I ever met. I love you.

I will never see you again.
I will never talk to you again.
I won't hold you again.
But a bit of you is still here. In me. Its all thats left.

And if I could, things would be different. But I can't. So it isn't.
I love you. We never said goodbye.
So I'm saying goodbye to who I was. Because that person died with you.  And if I killed myself today, I wouldn't be getting any of that person back. I wouldn't be getting anyone back.
I'll never have you back, my dear.
Goodbye.

I miss you.

Sucess!

You're a failure to all! Your parents are disgusted with you! You are no longer welcome here! Good job! Good Fucking Job!

YOU HAVE NO ONE LEFT. NO ONE WHO CARES ANYMORE. ITS ALRIGHT TO DIE NOW. IT WOULDN'T MAKE A FUCKING DIFFERENCE.

On being alone

People tell me that I should be thankful. People say I have so much to live for. People say lots and lots of things. But I don't feel that way all the time. I go on and be happy and cheerful and keep on a good face. A smart stiff upper lip, and I'm learning not to whine. "Let it all out" They say. "Trust people" they say. "Take as much as you need" they say. But when I do that they all complain. "You don't understand how you feel" they say. "I'm real busy" they say. "Its time you moved on" they say.

So as it turns out, I fake for a while. A right good liar. I speak everything on my mind, I say. I trust all my friends, I say. They all help me immensely, and are always there for me, I say. Because it turns out people don't like me.
(Perhaps not dislike, they just find so much so much better than me. I'm really just not worth the trouble anymore.)

Time certainly doesn't matter. We all change, and how could I ask for someone to care about this thing I've become! We all drift apart, that's how things are supposed to be. Promises don't matter. No one can really be taken seriously if they say that they'll make time, or that they'll be there when I need someone to talk to. Life has far too much going on to make time, and no one really means that they want to hear what you have to say. They just want to feel like a good person for offering.

I'm horribly lonely, again. It seems this is what I can come to rely on. The pain. The empty white room, with no one in it. The fall. I have become Sisyphus, with my rock, and my mountain, to bear alone. Do not tell me I need to learn to trust, you have taught me that I shouldn't. Do not tell me that things will be good, you have taught me that they won't be.

I have learned that I am here to push my boulder up towards the heavens alone. I will tone my being, with every sinew, with every fall, with every success. I will be a worker towards the better. And I will do it by myself.

I will be that lonely rock pusher. Until nothing but my company is all I will remember. For there isn't a damn soul, who has convinced me that they will help me be otherwise.
At least my cat doesn't lie about what it thinks of me. 

Still here.

I've still got a brain. I'm still here. I can see when you lie with your face too, you know. Actions speak quite loudly, you know.  I would like an explanation, I hope you know.

The fog

Then the depression sets in. The numbness is pretty strong. You just feel tired. You want to die now not because of pain but because it just seems better. Nothing because you're dead seems better than the nothing of just empty.