****

i hate all these words that one is faced with. i often wonder why the hell i am the way i am. maybe i've been brought up in the utterly wrong way. no one appreciates the value in me. there's nothing i have that i can offer in exchange for my dreams. it's like poison, this whole lack of self-worth and understanding.

i wish i could just end it all. erase my entire existence and start the world on its course anew. i weep for my parents, knowing that they had lost a child after they had me. i wonder why i was spared instead. i grieve for the opportunity cost of my existence. maybe the world could have had one more scientist, lawyer, a beautiful girl; someone to contribute something to it rather than to act like a worthless parasite. what good is literature to the world? what good is a half-formed mind to literature? how dare i call myself a student of literature when i can't even write a proper essay? who am i, mediocre nobody, struggling to keep up the pretense that i'm actually worth anything.

who set up the stage/conditions/prerequisites for the death of the heart? i wish i didn't have a soul. perhaps i could find greater peace in being a mindless pebble washed by the waves of the sea.

tell me. would you all then be happy?

strange.

somehow it doesn't hurt as much as it once did.

either i've grown up or i've given in.

help.

the shadows of the past have come back to haunt me.

God, are you still there?