in which I remain ever depressed.

I am filled with such blind rage with nowhere to direct it, no reason to justify it, nothing to do with it. it’s simply here, worming inside me, futile and furious.

every night I sit up reading for hours, having nothing else to occupy me, not even sleep. I have nothing to put myself towards. no one will hire me, no one looks twice at me. time sprawls endless, empty, daunting, and I rage at it for lack of anything else to do with myself.

in these hours with nothing to distract me, I withdraw to my bubble of hate and sadness all over again. I feel and taste the black void in the center of me that consumes everything — every good thing, every memory, every feeling, every thought — and corrupts them to a toxic sludge of lonely apathy.

I fumble blindly at a purpose for myself, a direction for my life, the exit on this interstate, and I can see nothing but a thousand little distractions and sideshows for lightyears.

I hate everything. am I supposed to feel anything else?

1. pipesandpipesandpipes said: Hmmm, you should hit me up sometime.
2. wolfwile posted this