FUCK. SAD. DEAD.
For almost a
year, I’ve been writing all this time about heartbreak, about despondency, all
about nothing that I should not be talking about. It’s hypocritical that I kept
on scribbling the same subject irregardless of how I feel at the moment. I don’t
know – I really don’t. You know what? I’ve never been this lonely and this is
my only outlet – writing. I may presume that this is the reason why I wrote
melancholic notes and it kind of bugs me off because for the very reason, this
secludes me from the personality that I show to other people. Yeah, I am
bipolar; almost schizophrenic; a victim of paranoia. Please, render me
something to get through this feeling. Sometimes, I used to see myself in the
characters of some television shows I watch. It’s not unusual, but I just came
to a point where I envy them because I’m no one. No one’s interested on me. There’s
none a thing. I have this feeling that if they just give me a chance to get to
know me, they will like me, but at the back of my mind, I don’t think so. I’m
not everybody’s sweetheart, neither a big bad brat. Well, I used to play both,
in my dreams, in which I have a hard time portraying. It’s cool to be mean and
pitiful for some reasons, but it’s hard to maintain such. One might despise you
to a point that he might dislike every single thing about you. Unfortunately,
every critique matters to me. I feel indifferent when I hear bad things about
me which I try to reconcile with and if I hear good feedbacks, I then became
flattered. But at the end of the day, I still don’t know who I am. As soon as
you’re reading this, you still don’t know who I am. A pretender, a chameleon, a
destitute – I AM NOTHING. I don’t
know if i can still prove to myself that i can be somebody. As years pass by, I
feel like a candle slowly melting. My dreams, my plans, my everything, it seems
to disappear in every little step I take. I always say I can do this, do those,
but in the end, I get poor outputs which is very dissatisfactory. I want to
kill my self – for many times – for being such a fiasco. L
I see myself not
contributory to anybody. What I brought into this earth since I came into my
senses, is just loads of garbage in terms of physically, socially, mentally,
emotionally, and spiritually. I dealt none when it comes to goodwill. As you
read this, you can see that my thoughts are quite cluttered and I am much
derogatory to myself – all because I AM WORTHLESS. As I type this, I recalled
that I should be writing about how loneliness affects my writing. But as I go
through this, it seems like I’ve been hurting myself by bursting out, ranting
out how foolish I am, how I do not deserve to live. I don’t know. I just keep
my fingers type the letters and construct the thoughts. I don’t know. It’s
automatic. I am sad – very sad. For no reason at all, I am sad. I don’t have a
love life, I don’t have a best friend, and I don’t have anybody. Maybe because,
there’s no one that I can talk to, the one I can breathe about my problems, I am
just lonely. How poor this keyboard for experiencing rape from his rude owner
because he is alone. The symptoms of being bipolar strike again. I want my
inner soul to be free, to be loose. I’ve been carrying a lot – fucking lot. Please
talk to me. Please. Please. Please.
I am miserable. Pathetic. Nevertheless, I am bored with what I am now - DISCONTENTED.
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