The Middle Row
I’m so unhappy. I feel like I’m worthless and I have no hope. I don’t know when I started feeling this way but I’m not sure I want to know because then I might have to acknowledge that it didn’t just start recently, I’ve felt this way for a very long time. Maybe so long that it wasn’t brought on by any event or any person. It didn’t result from going through a bad point in life, it’s who I am. I was born this way. The anxiety I feel and the paranoia runs through my veins as surely as my blood. My hate for myself chokes me and my irrational emotions and their extremity are going to suffocate me. I can’t see through my eyes; my vision is as distorted as my sense of self. I’m unstable and I’m constantly tripping on that instability. Don’t humans have a threshold for regret? I’m not real, who I am isn’t really me. I’m a brick house created by other people’s stones. The chipped, broken and dirty ones that weren’t good enough to build their own homes. It’s an interesting feeling, to die while you’re living. I’m a rubber band wound far too tight. Rubber bands break and snap when they’re stretched past their limit. What happens to a human being when they’re stretched too far? What happens to me?
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