She left at around six twenty. She also, left behind a couple of papers attached to each other.
I had a mental debate thing on whether or not to read what those pages said.
They seemed so inviting, though, as if they were meant to be read by me.
I decided that I would give it a go.
" I want to live
A productive life
I want to do something
Anything
I want motion
I crave it
But when I look at myself
I'm getting bored; I'm doing nothing.
There are so many places I want to do. So many things I want to do. But I can't. Under the circumstances that I'm living in, I can't. So many things I want to do but I find myself doing absolutely fucking nothing. I feel so helpless. So frustrated.
Oh, this sounds so much better in my head than on paper.
I read books that other people have written. I listen to music that other people make. I study about discoveries and inventions that other people have made. Every other person is doing something with their lives. I'm not able to do anything.
I'm looking for a word right now. A word that could sum up this feeling. A word that is like those fancy sounding syndromes because I feel ill. I think this is a disease.
I don't know what exactly this is. I don't know what to call it.
But whatever it may be, it's taking over me. It's choking me. "
