Why?
Why am I still here?
Everyday when I wake up, that's what I think. Every night before I fall asleep, that same thought wanders my mind. It never goes away. I am only one person. One measly person in this wide world, no, this infinitely vast universe. There are others far superior in terms of intelligence, strength, social skills, talent, looks, ability and the sort. Others far more deserving of a life to use to the utmost. Others, far more better than myself. So why? Why must I carry the burden of living a life I don't want? What's the point?
That's what I was thinking when I gripped the blade and held it to my throat.
~
Yet I exist. I live. At least, I go through the motions of living. Go to school. Eat. Sleep. Nothing more. My parents took me to a shrink a few times. Said it would make me happy and feel better about myself. They stopped after the doctor said I wasn't making much progress due to the fact that I didn't talk much. It's not that I especially didn't want to talk to a stranger, it's just I didn't have anything to talk about in the first place. So when that stopped, my parents suggested that I try hanging out with some of my classmates. I suppose they were expecting me to open up to them and help "get the ball rolling" so to speak. I did that. But nothing happened. Sure, I walked around with them, ate with them, listened to their banter. But it didn't matter. It didn't relate to me. I didn't care. Soon it was a hassle just to talk with my classmates, so I stopped. After that my parents were at a loss and gave up. I don't blame them. Most people don't know how to deal with a person as twisted and devoid as me. Even as my parents, they had another child to focus their efforts on. My sister was pretty, kind, smart, going to a good college, engaged to a businessman. She's everything I'm not. But I don't hold it against her. She's the only one who even pretends to care about me anymore. When I was 10, she brought home a guitar she had found, fixed it up, and taught me how to play. Back then I really liked it. I even got pretty good. Four years later, I stopped. I still have that same guitar. Sometimes I like to just look at it, thinking, dreaming up lyrics and chords, creating songs. Eventually, I lose interest, my spark, and give in to the sad thoughts that creep on my mind. But for some reason that night, my motivation didn't fade away.
Yes, that night.
The night of the meteor shower.
Why am I still here?
Everyday when I wake up, that's what I think. Every night before I fall asleep, that same thought wanders my mind. It never goes away. I am only one person. One measly person in this wide world, no, this infinitely vast universe. There are others far superior in terms of intelligence, strength, social skills, talent, looks, ability and the sort. Others far more deserving of a life to use to the utmost. Others, far more better than myself. So why? Why must I carry the burden of living a life I don't want? What's the point?
That's what I was thinking when I gripped the blade and held it to my throat.
~
Yet I exist. I live. At least, I go through the motions of living. Go to school. Eat. Sleep. Nothing more. My parents took me to a shrink a few times. Said it would make me happy and feel better about myself. They stopped after the doctor said I wasn't making much progress due to the fact that I didn't talk much. It's not that I especially didn't want to talk to a stranger, it's just I didn't have anything to talk about in the first place. So when that stopped, my parents suggested that I try hanging out with some of my classmates. I suppose they were expecting me to open up to them and help "get the ball rolling" so to speak. I did that. But nothing happened. Sure, I walked around with them, ate with them, listened to their banter. But it didn't matter. It didn't relate to me. I didn't care. Soon it was a hassle just to talk with my classmates, so I stopped. After that my parents were at a loss and gave up. I don't blame them. Most people don't know how to deal with a person as twisted and devoid as me. Even as my parents, they had another child to focus their efforts on. My sister was pretty, kind, smart, going to a good college, engaged to a businessman. She's everything I'm not. But I don't hold it against her. She's the only one who even pretends to care about me anymore. When I was 10, she brought home a guitar she had found, fixed it up, and taught me how to play. Back then I really liked it. I even got pretty good. Four years later, I stopped. I still have that same guitar. Sometimes I like to just look at it, thinking, dreaming up lyrics and chords, creating songs. Eventually, I lose interest, my spark, and give in to the sad thoughts that creep on my mind. But for some reason that night, my motivation didn't fade away.
Yes, that night.
The night of the meteor shower.
