I realize that my life has never amounted to much, and it never will, because there is a human factor there that's just missing. I'm stupid and petty and I spend so much of my time faking being a real human being yet my inner world is so devoid of purpose or cause or any kind of deeper meaning, or any specialness. I can't maintain a single contact in the long-term because the truth is that a connection will never be forged. I look at this world and all I see is an empty thing that will die someday and will never have mattered. And my surface life is just a stupid exercise in pointless contrarianism, because the truth is I resent life for being what it is, and I'm angry at existence itself, because its impermanence leaves it no objective value, which is the only kind I can appreciate, and I resent that I can't experience what other people experience, and I can't connect or meaningfully even communicate with them because my interpersonal world is that of a machine. I'm so fundamentally different from them that I can't even have a real discussion with them, I HAVE to pretend that I feel what they feel, and I so want to not pretend, but even if they understood, I would have no way to appreciate their understanding, I am that alone.

I'm not a cruel person, I see no reason to be, I have no reason to act like a spoiled child throwing toys around. Because I see the real problem, which is that even the worst cruelty, or the highest benevolence can't create something that isn't there. There is no narcissism that can save me from the non-existence of what I am. There is no slight or praise that ultimately reaches that core.

I used to think I was sort of a transcendent existence, because I saw life for what it is, and I was not attached to any material thing, and to me, all people were equal, and I could forgive anyone for anything, but that was only because I didn't care, because I'm not transcendent, I'm not even human, I'm less, I'm just a banality.

I'll never have my own purpose, or if I do, it will never escape my head, I'll just forever be piggybacking on someone else's gestalt. I'm so envious of the kind of people who feel such rich meaning from life. It's unfair that they were given that and there's nothing that can be done.

And the most miserable thing is that I can realize all this, but it will never change the way I behave. I'll always give in to game playing and manipulation and framing and posturing because at the end of the day, they're all I have.

I drew a heart on me with your knife. The one you get angry at me for using. Now I'll always have a heart, even when you break mine.

Life just gets so out of control, I don't even understand it.

My weakness was just a seed, but you nurtured it and watched it grow.

You filled my empty days with a borrowed happiness, and now I'm addicted, even knowing that we can never live in the light of day. Even knowing that I'm sacrificing my only chance to ever respect myself.

It hurts. I want to tear apart this house. I want to destroy this painful limbo so that it would only be a fragment of my memory, like everything else, to the point that I didn't even know if it were real. It's not real. So why do I need it so much?

Why do I need this lie so much? The hardest part is how closely it resembles something real. Some days it feels like I could just forget and slip into the reality of the lie, like falling into a picture book. If only I were stupid. If only I were oblivious. If only I didn't feel.

Why did I have to meet you? Why did it have to happen this way? How can you live with yourself, my partial savior?

Well, I'm just writing. That's all I have. Princesses in picture books don't complain. And yet somehow, my pain seeps into every word... it hurts to read them again. I'm leaking, and all I can do is move forward pretending I don't know it. All I can do is live in the sin of every minute of this fake life.

I'm just gonna be happy now. No ands or buts.

I remember visiting my mom in the psych ward before I left home and moved out of state with my boyfriend about a year and a half ago.

I saw the face of her disorder. It just really slapped me on the face all at once. I will never forget it because it was so eerie. It was like looking at a ghost. I wanted to break down and cry on the spot. It felt so grotesque and profoundly sad.

She was smiling innocently, almost warmly and benignly but something about it betrayed a smile. Somehow I could see that there was nothing left of a human being in there, if there ever was anything in the first place.

Well lately I feel very sensitive to faces. Last time I had a breakdown I remember telling my bf over and over again that my face scared me lately, and sure enough, my own face scares me in any state of sobriety because I can see it becoming her face over time. I can see it becoming that empty, soulless smile that can be worn in any filthy place, that accepts any depraved life. A smile that can only be a smile because it is completely disconnected from a human being.