I don't even know why I post anymore. I think I have an idea though, it's like coping. It gives off the illusion that I'm chipping away at my issues.

I'd break my back trying to explain and lay everything out, but there's no point. I keep convincing myself there is, but there isn't. No one wants to read an essay. And none of it is fixable, and nobody besides me can grasp their intensity. It's only ever going to seem trivial in everyone else's eyes.

I've now been clouded with these invulnerable problems long enough to go numb. The cowardice may never go away, rendering me unable to exit. So I guess that's it, life wins.

I'll just keep living out life, doing fucking nothing, going fucking nowhere. Apathetic, grey, and withering. Crying constantly, hitting my head against walls, injuring myself, feeling nothing anymore. I even miss the days of 2020 and 2021, even though the problems have devastated me in those years too. I at least felt something back then, and had some twinge of hope that things could change.

This is my life. I get it now. The idea of things changing for the "better" is a bygone concept. A disillusioned and juvenile thought carried from childhood. And the idea of me getting through my problems with art and envy is just flat out fucking stupid.

Apparently, this is the idea of a "good" ending to most people. Apparently, this is a better alternative to just dying now and letting the suffering come to an end, when it won't improve anyways.

I don't get it. I should've been better than this. I should've gone somewhere. Should've been something, anything like that artist. But I just became a wreck, a wreck who hurt many. I am a disgrace. I never should have existed.