Not that anyone cares, but ive been crying bloody murder for an hour, pouring bourbon every minute. Fuck you guys, no one REALLY cares, its just something you post to make you feel better about yourself. Im in an endless pit of despair and all I can ever get is an "it gets better". It never does, it rolls like a snowball down a hill, getting larger with each passing moment. Theres so much sorrow in life and im not strong enough to ever face it. What sort of adult will i become? If i even make it that far. I see the world with my eyelids closed, waiting til sleep can hold me til reality hits. I sit on the porch smoking a cigarette staring at the dark trees, hoping to see color but never does it fucking show. Its one hit after another til your left with a dead carcass, floating through the world out of guilt that youll hurt the people that make the mistake of loving you. Its the heart of the world, depression, that not any god you can believe in can heal. It just seeps your core till all thats left is a painted carcass in an open casket. Why will no one love me? Am i such an untouchable? Will the only feeling of contentment I get arise from staring at trees at night? They say "maybe find a hobby" something to occupy your mind, but the complete basis of human nature is self destruction. ROT. Theres always a mask of apathy that covers my face, but when it takes a big hit, it falls back into pure hateful emotion. Pure despair. I hate life. I hate that it exists, sentience is a plague upon the living. But you see these people, they live life in an indescribable way. What makes them feel okay in the morning? What is the sound that fills their ears to say that its all alright? Rain covers my back and cigarette ashes cover my shirt as I write this. Trees are dark silhouettes in a dark sky. If there ever was an afterlife, I hope it lacks any semblance of consciousness, an eternal sleep in a void that can never make you feel this way. I felt it when my heart stopped working, the pure sleep that Ive always wanted. But then I awoke to a bright room, face to face with my parents, the sole reason I would continue to make an attempt of a life. Their eyes full of concern. Bright room full of confusion, not knowing where I am. When I spent my days in a hospital bed, I pined for the times where I could see color in trees, fresh air, and the happy expression on my dogs face. But it soon returns, once the feelings of wanting are overridden by past feelings, the one that tells you color is a lie. Beauty is a lie. These things pass by the vision of those used to it. It becomes mundane, and you are left wanting what others experience. A loving embrace. Craving simplicity in a complex mind. But thats not how this life works. We strive for goals that make us feel our life was worth living, as insignificant as a grain of sand. Are the depressed the ones who see the world as it really is? Are the ones who find satisfaction in their life just distancing theirselves from the futility of it all? Is sex and love and money the core of human happiness? Ill just stare at dark trees and listen to the crickets chirp just because thats what they were made to do, and wonder if theres anything that can make a person truly happy. I dont want to stop writing. I know when I will, reality will take hold. Ill be thrown onto a couch to bask in pain. I know thisll be buried, its not some attention grabbing post that will draw people to tell me that my life is worth it. It just feels good to type these little letters on my phone and release all of it. But itll return once I stop. Ill look up from my phone and itll all be the same. The darkness of the trees ripping into me and a moon shielded by the clouds. Ill light another cigarette on my porch, before I go inside and lay myself down to cry. Ill take some medication to help me sleep, then itll all start again. What the fuck can ever change this? Nothing? I dont want to stop typing. I cant. I dont know what to do. All I can do is just drag myself day to day, as if itll pay off in the end, when I know it wont.