I am doing the best that I possibly can. There is nothing left. I have no more to give. There is nothing more within me to have. I have been pulled, and stretched as far as I can go.
But it’s not enough.
And I can’t say any of this because I will cry and I can’t cry because I have nothing left.
I am chronic. But I am incurable because I am not sick. I have a malignant personality.
I am a toxic leech, incapable of doing anything. I can run, and I can eat, and I can sleep. I can weigh myself incessantly every hour and meticulously count every calorie. But beyond that, I am at a loss.
I am an empty shell, staring into space. I am a silent onlooker, watching life fly by. I am a blank canvas, with potential ruined by passing time.
I am a lazy shit, who can’t get her act together and just write a stupid fucking simple essay. I can’t do anything I’m supposed to do, or want to do, or need to do to be the person I long to be.
I am pathological and I am compulsive and I am addictive.
This passive madness is horrifying.
I am the author of my fate.
I am the force that moves this shell.
I am the choice that chooses to live as I lived today.
I am the breath that breathes life into this soul again.
It is so easy to get lost into the early hours of the morning. Like a rip tide that pulls you out to sea, gradually the shore recedes, until all at once you find yourself desolate and only, surrounded by nothing but the vast ocean.
After midnight, white noise fades into the gentle hum of cicadas. People succumb into slumber. Responsibilities fall away. And I am left all alone.
I like the night. I like it’s peace. Here in the gentle hours of the dark is breathing space. Sometimes I wonder if I subconsciously allow myself to stay up late just for this unrivalled tranquility.
I’ve come to realise that I am actually a boring person. In particular, conversationally. I can’t entertain, I don’t enthrall, and I’m not interesting. I’m just generally not all that fun to be around. Not like I used to be. It’s no wonder people don’t ask me over or invite me places; they don’t want to hang out with me.
Years of sadness and many more of nothing but forced conversations with doctors about me, myself and I, have ruined me. It’s like I’ve lost all ability to think on a normal level and connect with functional human beings.
What is a chameleon when she is without a defining tide? What happens if there is nothing to reflect? What is a chameleon when she is alone?
This is quite a sad revelation.