It seems my perspective would never change.
Grief is a close relative of mine. Sadness, a neighbor. Happiness a distant visitor. And loneliness, my bosom friend. It's silly to think of these words as real people, yet to me it seems already too close to my reality.
I have wasted years growing cynical and melancholic. Every direction I turn I face dejection. All I await now is my bitter end to fall upon me. Everyday, my sanity gradually withers and my control over my actions only lead to despair. Though I desperately cling to anything that could make me survive, I know my futility would eventually lead to my destruction.
It is fortunate, that today I was given the chance to write what runs through my mind. For simply my own voice and mind comfort me through these merciless hours. Yet, jotting all these down only heightens the emotions that stir inside me, it does not console me. I wish these things would change and leave me, but that is what fools would think of. For the truth always means pain to me.
But maybe I am a fool. I selfishly think of what dire experiences life would offer me this time, without even appreciating the beauty and exuberance I discard from my senses every moment. I forget the others who would accompany me through my unending struggles, simply thinking of the obsidian air that envelopes me. I never realize that it is I who obliterates my existence—making me weaker, driving me deeper to the ground. And even if I keep writing it down, I will never accept and understand that my own doings have compelled me to my own fall.
I pity myself, yet even that I do not deserve.