Most nights I lie on my bed and pray that the memory foam pressed to my face would swallow me whole and set me free. As I’d sink deeper into oblivion, I would be freed of all my responsibilities, moral obligations, and tedious deadlines.
Unfortunately, there’s no universe awaiting me underneath my mattress. Just a frame. Therefore, I am stuck doing things I hate because I’m afraid if I didn’t do them I’d feel meaningless.
That’s insane, right?
I keep myself miserable because I’m afraid of being more miserable.
At this point, I’m not living. I’m existing. I don’t have time for the few friends I do have because I’m too busy trying to be “well-rounded.” And even if I did make time, they’d be too busy trying to achieve the same work-a-holic hell I try to maintain everyday.
Fuck well- rounded; I want to disappear.
The only time I feel human is when I’m alone in my room, and the thoughts I have are pretty bleak. I don’t know how to make new friends because a life of introspection has made me socially incompetent.
But oh well.
Tomorrow Ill wake up, put the mask on, and resume the routine.
