I'm still here.

I tell myself that everyday. On Tuesday I thought about leaving. Fading away. Wonderous sleep. Thought isn't the correct term, knew, planned, desired, are better words to use. But I'm still here. And I really can't decide whether I'm weak or something else. My life is in a tumble. School. Work. Feelings. I am so tempted to carve myself up. Once for every agonizing thought that rips through my mind. I'd be bleeding to death in less than five minutes. Sigh. Maybe I am weak.

What am I clinging to? Emptiness? I guess that's one thing to do. I have nothing to cling to. I have no hopes and desires to drive me through the day. I have nothing pushing me forward in live. I have nothing within myself. I am, an empty shell. I keep trying to find things to fill that shell. Books, games, thoughts, dreams.. Nightmares. Dreams are lost to me now. And I've been so tired.. so very sleepy and overwhelmed by nothingness. What am I holding onto? Why can't I let go?

My parents are upset that I'm now opening the book of my life and pouring out my heart and soul to counsellors. How am I supposed to do that? How can I just say, "Yep, these are all the things that are wrong with me. I acknowledge this and realize other options I can do to achive a fix for this. The information you're telling me is, in fact, useless." There is, of course there oposition of, speaking to someone else offers different view points. Which I am not excluding. But for the most part, those other view points just make me angrier than I already am. And it is taking such great difficulties to keep my anger in check. It never used to be like this. Except for the last time. Time and past are blending into one sinking pit of gray. I can't climb out of it. The glass is broken, and it's cutting into me. My hands as I try to get out, my arms as I slip and fall, my face as it disappears.

There's no guardian angels to rescue me. The ladder is there in plain sight. But everytime I reach for it, it fades out of existance. If I go to a psychiatrist or counsellor, and I tell them, "Well, I want to end my life." and they proceed to go, "Why?" and I answer, "I don't really know. There's nothing in it." What the hell is this shit? What kind of answer is that? Are they then supposed to go on a spree of perscribing me a list of anti-depressants and various other medication for bi-polar and all this other bullshit I haven't even been diagnosted with? I don't even know what's wrong with me! Other than the face that I feel empty and cold and ugh. With each word I re-read and see in it's emoness I'm just sickened even more. My life isn't bad. There isn't anything to hate about it. But I'm just.. What's wrong with me?

I'm helping out at the elementary school, and the kids do make me happy. I want them all to grow up full and whole. Not broken and shattered like I've become. I don't want them to experience the sense of nothingness so profound they lose the desire to awaken to a new day. But at this point in their life, they don't understand any of it. I see their happy little faces, as I watch with my happy older one, my mask of happiness. My dead smile that has no depth. It's becoming all too noticable. To my parents, to my teachers, to my 'friends'. I need to get control of myself. I need to submerge these feelings of desolation beneath my shell where they belong. A little push here, a little push there.. making the way right for the future. But what future?

My emotions and feelings have also been trod and stepped upon, picked up and loved, set aflame and burned, and mended together out of hope. How do things like these end up happening? People say, "I'm not ready for a relationship." And defy what they say. But really, now I understand. Now I understand all of it. Now, I am truely alone. I can remember everyone I ever tried to reach out to. I can remember it all. I can remember things I've tried so hard to forget with all my might. But my glass is broken, and I keep falling and cutting myself upon it.

I simply exist to exist. And shadow living through the days until my existance eventually fades into the growing twilight. There is only death within me.

Poetic? Whatever. I'm just sick, tired, cold, and empty. There is no cure for the cold that I've caught.

No cure.