I seem to remember happiness. Don't remember what it feels like, but I remember a time when life was at least OK or better on just about every level. Not that much below OK. When I just felt that it was pretty nice to be alive. That life was pretty good, although not perfect.
Maybe I am just being nostalgic. Probably. That's the problem, innit? I can never see what I got until it's too late.
I refuse to be worried about material things anymore. Can't stand it. So what if it blows up in my face? I've been hungry before. There's more important things at stake here, although I can hardly see them anymore and the tools I once thought I had... Well, I don't know how to use them anymore (if ever I did).
It's so... I don't know. That's the problem, you see. I don't know. I feel like mist.
And that hate is coming back. I feel myself tensing up everytime I'm outside the apartment, assessing people when they pass me, always being ready. And staying in the apartment is no solution. I just disappear into space. Not thinking, just to avoid feeling.
This isn't a home. At least not my home. It's full of other people.
I just feel so wasted. Like I've wasted myself. And it feels like I'm doomed to repeat it. But maybe not.
It's just a horrible feeling, both knowing that you can't and don't want to go back, but there's nothing on the horizon to move forwards to. It's more like a death march than a race.
Should get some sleep I guess. Won't work.
Ah, fuck it. I guess tomorrow will be better, or something.
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