Prose

Life is a rot

What’s with this hollowness. What’s with this lack of desire to be whole again. Selfishness is all that remains intact. Coming up with words to describe what I’m feeling is the greatest task, the greatest challenge. I don’t know what to do anymore. I fail at everything that I try. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough, maybe I’m trying too much. A walking empty shell is that can be said about me. I have no emotions and feel nothing more than misery. I refuse to call a friend and talk about what I’m going through. I don’t want to throw my baggage on them, it’s a lot to carry. I’ve been drinking myself to sleep, because I don’t want to lay in despair, as I wait for a sleepy feeling. I have no desire for the day to end, or to start. There is no difference between today and tomorrow, between now and forever. Life can be amazing, but life can be a rot, an endless cloud of shame and guilt. I’m sorry for every time I fucked someone over, this is what I deserve.

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