I thought I had reached the end of my writer phase. I was never good, nor was I ever successful; this was a distraction and a cathartic experiment.
I am now feeling old, lost and without a purpose. If once, my purpose was to write, today my purpose is to destroy every piece of evidence of this shameful place, burn it forever in a fire with all my memories, and disappear into a place where no one can find me, or force me to go through the inevitable path of existence.
I am an adult, and for the first time I feel like an adult. And I am alone.
Words come and go. People telling me they will “never leave me”, that “lots of people love me” and that I am not alone, but with every word, comes a gust of wind that pushes it away and leaves me empty regardless. I feel alone, and I cause pain upon those who feel their presence in my life is useless. This, in turn, causes me grief, but never remorse.
I have also discovered that I am almost incapable of feeling guilt. That hard, incessant pang in the heart whenever one is aware of some wrongdoing – I can’t feel it. I can hardly feel anything anymore, only lots of frustration.
And all of this I say, because I think I am on a path to destroying myself. It feels like a good way to begin adulthood. I am 25 and fucking up my life. Right now, I don’t care.
I feel my job here is done. I hardly have anything to say, and whenever I try to put it into words here, it comes off insincere, contrived and poor. This, however, is honest, and feels necessary.
I am writing this for you. For you all, and for you, my only one. I will one day draw the line, but not today. For right now, I don’t feel guilty or alone.