Yep. I'm still me. Still sorrowed. Still unsatisfied. Still miserable. But this is the only place I can hide away anymore, and I know no one will find me here. In reality, yes I am hiding. Hiding from the world I find so cold. Where everyone hides the true things they feel , but at night they let all their hatred and their true selves free. I find as time goes on, it gets worse and realize I have no place in this world. Where my friends insult my beliefs and I say nothing because their all I have. I have nothing in this life. No friends, no enemies, only people I met in passing. Is suicide really that funny? Does me having a spot of extreme suffering really bring you pleasure, when you know to me it's no such joke. I have regret and misery about it every fucking day, and you still think me inferior. ..
It's these kind of things that drive me mad. When everything I think is wrong and insulted. I wish I could open their eyes. I wish they would see things as I do. Then again, I wish for a lot of things. I wish for friends. I wish for better social skills. I wish for dream worlds to spring forth and drag me from my reality. I wish for the impossible, because I'm too weak to make it happen. What a miserable world, when all a man can count on is that the few he thinks he can trust, insult all he stands for except him directly.
I guess I really don't belong here. In this place. In this world. In this life.
Dear Uncle Death. I'm needing somewhere to live. I was wondering if I could be fortunate enough to stay with you or at least get a ride to somewhere. Thanks