I can’t believe that there was a time, not long ago, where I was genuinely happy. It feels like it’s been years.
I wake up feeling pain in my chest, overwhelmed by nausea and a lack of awareness. I take a glimpse of my face in the mirror, but it’s not me, it is a shell. desolate and sinister. I’m not even trying to hide it, the attempt itself would be porous and the truth would leak through like blood leaks through a slik cloth.
Every evening I lay in bed and struggle with the question of whether I can still do that. Can I still live like this? it is a repetitive automated process. Again and again. I don't know how much longer I can try to convince myself this, but I feel like the real answer is getting closer. It is only a matter of time before this misery comes to an end. and the question arises what that goal entails.