In the Middle of Hell

I think what drives my melancholy is that a part of me is searching for that person I thought I would be when I was still young. I thought I would be king of the world, bigger than life. I pictured having the love of my life, my soul mate, next to me, in love with the force in which our hearts would connect to one another. I thought I would be great. Instead, I am lonely, sad, and I question whether to keep on living. The road of sadness is one filled with razorblades in each step forward towards the sign of happiness, killing myself little by little the longer I hold on and keep going, trying to reach this place so badly, hoping I can save myself and become who I thought I could be. But it feels too late, I feel older, past the mark of greatness. I feel I have missed the window in where I could have been happy. My demons found me at an early age, and they have taken every bit of compassion for myself and turned it into self hatred. I battle myself in ways that are meant for war. Who I am and I will be, if I keep living, is not who I wanted to be. There’s nothing left to smile for, or to even bother faking it. I am no one and nothing. I can’t go back, or go forward, and this is where hell is for me, and I do not wish to live it.

* It seems almost childish to write something like this, but once I started to write, I couldn’t stop *


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