9:08 P.M, Everyone is awake and online. in calls, talking to one another. Distance man, If they didn't live around the world I'd be able to go and hug each and every one of them. I get lonely these times. and more often then not I let the little darker parts of me strangle the better. Sometimes I feel like I'm left out, When I'm not, When I could Go and talk to them, Be with them, Build with them.but I don't, because I feel like I'm doing it wrong, and even if I try, I'd mess it up, and they'd get mad. So I sit in silence listening to the music in the background, and undoubtfully do something else. I don't know what's wrong with me, or rather, what isn't. I often find myself thinking about the future, sometimes my mind straying to the thought of death. perhaps its what everyone wants to beilive; You get to see everyone you knew in your past, Your Mom, Dad, Sister, brother, Ect. Perphaps you don't "Die" maybe you just poof back into existance. Maybe, Just Maybe, It's just a void. perphaps this Void is white, or black, or maybe its different colors.
when my mind doesn't wander off to the topic of death, it often wanders to the part of my mind that wants a future, A nice, happy, future. With the love of my life, Kids, a house, a car, and some pets. but before that, I always wonder if I'll live in an apartment, Maybe I'll live with friends. maybe I'll travel until I find someone that loves me, For me. maybe I'll go through some magic expericance that'll fix my anxiety, My depression.. the weight of not being good enough, the two little devils perched on either side of my shoulders, Telling me nasty secrets, ones that no one should know... Sometimes I get called an Angel, but Oh if they knew what crawls inside my head waiting for a chance to be set free from the chain's I've put on it. I can't imagine anyone seeing me as an "Angel" I'm merely a human being waiting for the moment I die, But, aren't we all?
I often have loops of little stories ringing throughout this abnominal hell I call my head, ones that I'd love to put on paper and get published, But alas, I'm too scared to write them, Scared of the critics, the ones that'll tell me "Oh, its horrible" "Ew, This is what you write about?" "This is rubbish" "You shouldn't write anymore"
Ah well, Guess I can't change the world, for now, Goodbye.
With Love,
The Anxious Human
