How can one person spend the majority of their life hating every fiber of their being, every aspect of their personality? How can one feel so much (so tortuously much) one moment, and the next spend it floating through grey static, peeling away the layers of your skin just to find out if you are still inside? Question your existence, is your conscience yours, why do dreams feel so real and why why WHY can you not stop thinking? Death, life, more why why why. I’ve lost hope that there is a point to being. To existing. This body fades and our matter will travel through the universes and eventually form into something else. Does anyone else see between the cracks, hear the lost souls whispering into their ears like I do? Do you feel the presence of the angry, the lost, of those looking for someone to reach out to? There is something bigger, much bigger, weighing on my shoulders that I can’t seem to handle alone. The weight of the world and its sadness, its inability to stay stable, its cruelty breaks me apart and touches me in ways that I don’t want to participate in anymore. Exhausting.