I don't know.

I've got a life. A light, free life. A light, free life that is bright, too overwhelmingly bright that the shadow it casts is darker than anything I've been through before.

I wanted this life. This life that I thought would free me from all feeling, from all pain by being numb. Now it's here, but now I don't know if I still want it. I don't even know if I want to have a life anymore. My life had always betrayed me, whatever I do, whatever I choose to be, whatever I try to become. It's at it with destroying me again, slowly blinding this light I had found, however dim or fake it is.

Why is life so cruel?

What did I do to deserve this? All I wanted is to have somewhere I can be in, in peace if not in happiness. Damn, I can feel the cold seeping deeper in my skin, like lightning. Hits you before you know it and never goes away. The empty feeling flowing through my veins like my blood. Sometimes I wonder if my blood is even red, maybe it's black now. I feel like a living corpse.

I do what I want to do, but I don't really know what it is that I want exactly. Nothing seems to satisfy me, no matter how hard I try. I just waste every day, every second that the clock screams, every aggravating waft of air that courses through my lungs and keeping me alive. Or so it seems.

I can't believe that after all my efforts to be strong, all I can make out of myself now is weakness. Pathetic. I spite it with all the remaining will I got.

Life has always been about falsity. One way or another, people are just mindless dolls played around in a stage. Helpless and incapable. Incapable of resisting the temptations of their destruction, the illusions called hope and love. I am one of them, as everyone. It is inescapable, as it is undeniable. That I shamefully admit to my conscience.

And, what's this? Blood flowing out of my knuckles, is it real? Hah. Trying to hurt myself, isn't it so? Or trying to tire myself to near death just so I could rest peacefully at night? Damn, I feel nothing.


I cry.

Nothing. At least I tried. Like I always did. I've always wanted to cry for my life, the pity I hold for its waste. My tired eyes burn, longing for comfort, but no tears would fall. I'm cursed to bear with all this pain, keep it deep inside while it eats me alive, perhaps? Long, cold fingers gripping my throat, but doesn't kill me. It just hurts me, depriving me of breath, suffocating, depriving me of freedom, but never wants to take my existence. I wish it would just kill me, to stop all this, but it's too cruelly shrewd that it won't.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck this life. I want to die. But I don't want to. What is happening? Seems like I've chained myself in this darkness, and I don't want to break free. Why am I still here? Am I loving this pain? Am I embracing it with all I am, putting myself under slow, sweet torture?

I don't know.

All I can do is write about it. At least I am not deprived of words to express my revulsion against my life, all the people that fool you that they understand but can never, fate, this confusing haze, everything. To express the reality that surrounds my being. However how slightly it does, it's all I can do.

Trapped between the darkness and the light. Reaching out for a nonexistent hand to get me out. But as always, I have to bear with this.