Depression

 Where am I speaking from? I keep feeling sorry for myself. Always sorry. It's because I don't have much else. Sorry first. Straying further from perfection each day. I don't see the world. I'm too old for this. I'm too young for that. I need to make a choice. Choices. They feel so limited. Of course, they're self-imposed. I'm a parasite. Sucking the soul out of myself and the people around me because I want to get what I want. Everything I've done has been self-interested. Everything I do is done to strengthen my ego. The ego that I want to get rid of. Because it seems cool. The people I like have less ego and I want to become like them. I don't want to be me. Being me means choosing. Choosing means acting. Acting means I have to put myself up against a challenge. Every action is a challenge. What if I fail? I don't want to cause more pain. I can't stand to look someone else in the eye and believe everything they say. I can't believe everything they say. I don't understand what they're saying. I can't tell if it's the same that it's always been or if it's different. Have I really fucked up my brain? Was my brain fucked up to begin with? Where along the way did I start to become this? I have brief, flashing memories of my childhood. I remember so little. Maybe more than I think but there's too much pain in remembering. Too much perversion. A disgusting mess of a child with seeds planted now is a convoluted, confusing forest with too many leaves to brush through. Some days I hold onto the hope that I have an unusual amount of power. I'm still that child. Writing this is not an accomplishment. It's a start. I see this as an end when I need to look at it as a means. This a conduit for my more complex feelings that I don't share very often to be laid out in front of me. With it, I can learn from myself and go into the world with a more well-rounded perspective. I'll be able to make choices understanding that it will be a challenge. My half-assed life feels like it's crumbling down around me. Still, I write. I don't even know why, really. Any attempt to figure it out will be in vain. Why am I even alive? What am I living for?

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