I feel like I was emptied overnight a long time ago. I cannot find pleasure in anything I enjoyed before—nothing makes me happy. All I do is go through my day in a haze, and then sleep (sometimes I cannot—by night time everything is dark and twisted and I can see my own body being lowered into the ground), and wake up the next morning and scrape the crystallised tears off my face. I wish I had hopes and dreams and I wish I could deem every day a new opportunity. I wish something moved me—a vague, flickering flame, the belief something may happen.
I desperately cling to life when I have no use for it. Days slip by unnoticed, like those paper cuts you discover the day after, when a sharp pain in the back of your hand reminds you you should handle your books more carefully. Everything is empty, repetitive, dreadful. I cannot recognise my reflection—I feel as if I should have no body. It’s so absolutely worthless it is almost hilarious. There is something lacking in the world and I don’t know what it is, or if it exists.
I’m so tired.