It's only getting later and I should be going to bed, but I'm so fed up. I can't convince myself to end this day just so I can experience another. It feels like such a waste.
I don't know why I'm writing this. I never know why I do what I do. I don't even know what it is I'm doing. All I know is that it's becoming easier.
Yes, it's easier than it ever has been to feel sad and accept the feeling, because I don't feel it anymore. There's only a void inside, and a false face to hide it. Misery has become my only friend. There's something sweet about it and I don't know how to leave it behind.
I feel such a conflict inside between wanting to be understood and the fear of making myself vulnerable, so I've withdrawn into my own world, so that the real world feels strange to me. I don't know how to return there. I feel like an alien, trapped inside an alien world, and trapped inside myself. I don't know what I'm doing here.
I wish that I could just wake up tomorrow and my eyes would be opened—that I could see the world with clarity and feel human again; but as it now, I wake up from a dream and into another, like the living dead. Time blurs together. Yesterday feels like another life, tomorrow feels impossible, and the present moment feels like nothing. I don't think I can be more lost than this.
Oh well. At least it's getting easier, and soon I won't know the difference.
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