For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt that there’s really no inherent meaning in my own life.

Certain things and certain moments in time give me the illusion of it, the idea of having a direction to follow and a certain goal to pursue, but beneath that always lies the undeniable truth of my own life, at least for myself: there’s no point. I don’t like almost anything about it. I don’t like my job, I don’t like that I can’t find the strength of mind and will power to actually move out of my parents, I don’t like that every single time I give my heart away to someone I regret it shortly after, I don’t like that I’m awful at the things I have to do at my job, I don’t like that I don’t know how to live (if it is at all possible) off of the things I am actually good at, and that don’t appear to be that many, honestly.

It’s just this constant feeling of “what’s the point?”, “I’m tired”, “I just want to sleep”, “nothing seems to make any sense and I don’t know if I’ve ever even been happy”.

I am so stuck inside of myself and I can’t get out, but I can’t move forward, and I sure as fuck can’t go back to when I still had “time to decide”.

Everything’s so… empty. Devoid of meaning. The people that fall in love with me don’t really seem to get it.

I hate what I’ve been doing, and I hate that my own brain paralyses me and stops me from changing even the most basic of aspects in my life.

I hate that I’m a living creature with self awareness. Everything hurts. I just want it to stop. To stop time, to pause and breathe and understand and heal. I can’t do anything like this. I’m not strong enough.

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