I am uncertain how to write sometimes. I’m really good with putting things into words, being descriptive with my mental images. I’ve been told I have a gift for oration, yet I feel that the gift is wasted on me. I am no one terribly important in the history of the world. I go to the market, buy milk, come back, sit in front of my computer with dreams that go nowhere, try and find a fun job, and try to live a decent life. I should be happy, but I’m not. I hate everything.
I feel like dying everyday. I feel like just ending my life and letting everyone move on without me. Let the money my mom has for me go to charity. Let my wife have all of my savings and start her business. Let her find someone from her own culture who would suit her better. Someone who doesn’t fall asleep so much on her, who understands her language, who shares her dreams and desires, this way she can go live a great life for her remaining years. I can just he a ghost watching others and being happy that they are happy.
Oh wait, that’s what I do all the time. Running around to make others happy, while being unhappy deep in my soul. Trying to make it work, but always being rejected by life. Sometimes, I don’t know why I am trying to be rich, famous, or even simply healthy. It’s not going to make much difference in reality.
I’ve put a knife to my skin today. Two times, but I’ll never tell. Why would I? It’s not like anyone really cares in the long run.