What if I never find happiness? In anything?
In writing, or being with friends or family, or wearing my favorite clothes or reading books – what if all of my happiness is gone? What if I have to deal with this swarming, nauseating feeling in my gut? Will my eyes always feel like they’re seconds away from sleeping? Will my shoulders always lay limp on my neck because I can’t find purpose or meaning enough to sit up straight?
Even if the windows are down in my car while blasting my favorite music, that hollow, empty swarm of sadness still sends me to a place of neutrality. Like nothing I do or say or feel matters.
Who or what am I living for? Right now? It feels like I’m just wasting time before I’m dead.
I just want to go home, but when I go home it isn’t home.
My heart burns and my stomach feels so tight and empty and my skin feels like it’s trying to produce its own version of icy-hot. And it’s all for what? For nothing. I really just don’t want to be here anymore.