My Life Is Like Hell

If you saw me, you would think that I am a happy person with all life has to offer. You would be wrong. People don't know what I have to go through each day of my life. I smile in through my sadness, laugh through my pain. No one sees the real me, and nobody tries.

Life is like a big drama that's acted out in the most pathetic way you can think of, everybody wears a mask and becomes someone else, entirely concealing their real person. There are mimes to, the ones that act like they're so funny but secretly cry. Then there's the main actor or actress that get whatever they want, whenever they want and who ever they want! But the rest of them were the doubles or the extras that had no purpose but to walk around pretending to be busy.

But they would still have apart in the drama. There would always be the one person left over. The one that has a lot to say, but no one to listen to them, to their opinions. "Opinions? Who cares about them?" they would say with a sneer. "You have no right to opinions so keep your mouth closed."

Why? Why do I have to be that person left out, not even having the privilege to walk across that stage? Why? I ask myself again and again. I am a good person, and I have done no wrong that should condemn me to this living hell that I call my life.

Life. What is it but a house of suffering, a river of pain? God or whoever created us, wanted us to suffer.

Life is like the books in the library. The fresh new ones get borrowed out as soon as it comes back, with a never-ending list of reservations. Some are put in the shelves with many, many books; some are in shelves of only 3 books or 4. But the really unlucky ones are the ones that get borrowed, and returned looking like it was from the Middle Ages. But hey, at least they get borrowed and were wanted is some way. There are the shit books that they always display for sale for 20 cents which none wants anyway. But at least they get noticed. What about the one that's hidden behind the shelves, the one people have forgotten about? Stuck behind those books, not even being seen, not even noticed. Do you know whom this book represents? Me.

Sometimes being in a place full of people could also be the loneliest place to be. You are not physically alone, because of that person next to you, but you are emotionally alone.

No one to talk to. No one to listen to. No one who understands.

It is all these feelings mixed into one, big, whole, ugly, fat piece of crap that I am entitled to ownership.

I'm so alone in this world; I might as well be in hell. This place where I can't express myself, unable to talk. All I can do is look to the outside world and feel envious that these people have someone they can talk to or be with, and they'd be willing to.

My life began in hell, so I should end it there too.