I am this close to giving in. Returning myself to the foodchain. To become wormfood.
There's no telling what to believe in anymore, it seems that a burning passion for something only makes you weaker, more prone to depression, more difficult to deal with, harder to understand and keep track of. From this day on, I'll always watch myself from the outside, shut away my passion and enthusiasm, my energy and glow to avoid getting hurt.
At least I'll keep my cool. Wasting away sounds so much better in mute.
No talent, no belief. No feeling of self-worth. Slowly rotting, shedding pounds by cutting ones limbs off. The purpose of it all has just gone clean out of me, broke and broken. Constantly on the way to nowhere. A whole bunch of nothing and an ache that doesn't leave, not for one simple, merciful second. No. All is not well. Havoc. Everything just appears wrong to me. For me. Reduced to cells, we'll not drink the water.
was something i actually published somewhere else, but i noticed that depression does not speak well with outsiders. when you're so far down you feel like you've got nothing to lose, well, you could try and imagine how much that must hurt.
so sad that the possibility of running away from oneself is not actual. you can't.
i dream of waking up..
