I think I’m a sad person deep down. I convince myself I’m happy, but I’m not sure I am. If you took away all of my interests, all of my obsessions, and all of my hyperfixations…I am nothing. Without all the media I bury myself into, I don’t think I’d be here today. Dark, I know. But it's true. It’s sad to live for stories or characters that don’t exist. It’s sad to sink into my bed and fantasize about being anywhere but here. Yet if I didn’t do this, I would have no desire to keep on going.

I love my friends and family very much. They’re another reason why I stay. I don’t want to traumatize and scar those I love for the sake of a peace I may or not find. It’s not as though I wish for death, I don’t see myself purposely trying to die. I just wish I could sleep for a long time. I wish I could wake up without anyone having expectations of me. There’s a heavy burden on my shoulders that I want gone. But why do I feel a sense of comfort in sadness? What’s it like to function without that ache in your chest?

Wake up, work, come home, sleep. I don’t want to be stuck in this never-ending cycle. But for as long as I am here, I have no choice. I need money to live. I can’t be truly happy in a world like this. It makes sense why people are so desperate for love even when it’s in all the wrong places. You don’t want to feel alone. When you have someone by you, it lessens the weight on your back. But I can’t seem to find love. I don’t think I even know what love feels like, yet I crave it. I can’t live for myself so I live for others. I live for anything but me.

Hopefully, I’ll wake up one day feeling satisfied with my life. Feeling fulfilled where I am at that moment. For now, I’ll convince myself I’m doing alright even if it’s not true. No point in wallowing when I can’t do anything about it.