Poetry

Cold

It's just cold.
Outside, on the sidewalk, alone, I stand, trying to find some trace of emotion, some feeling.
But all I feel is cold, biting through my jacket, and I hardly even care.
Looking at the grey clouds, a sight that would've certainly struck me as cool and beautiful when I was a kid, but now they just seem as empty as my mind.
And the only thoughts I can piece together are bitter, deadly, icy thoughts that pierce through me just like the wind. Every car that comes by has me wondering what would happen if I jumped in front of it, wondering if it would really be better to try and end whatever existence I had right here.
But my body is indifferent, stiff, unmoving, and so I stand.
There's a certain feeling of disgust toward myself. I think that if I were someone else walking down the sidewalk, looking into my own lifeless eyes, I would hardly hesitate to run up to myself, and make those lifeless eyes become truly dead. But there is no one in sight, no one to attack me. I almost wish there was. The monochrome world that I'm standing in would look a lot nicer with a little bit of red. The stillness could use some chaos. The silence is just waiting to be broken.
But the quiet, monotonous, grey world around me does not change, and so I stand.
Memories come and go in my thoughts, but I don't remember what they are supposed to make me feel. I remember the people who love me. I remember that all I wanted was for them to be happy. I remember believing that being dead would not help anyone, and so that is why I am still alive. But none of that makes me feel better about myself. It doesn't matter to me anymore. My life doesn't have any value to me, and even if it does have value to anyone else, it shouldn't.
But as much as I don't care about living, I don't care enough to die, either, and so I stand.