So I sat down to write this and I thought to myself.. be as honest as you possibly can

Typing this now, my hands feel like mush

I am now in the 4th month of my 32^nd year on earth

The world around me has only gotten worse

My mental state is fickle, like rootless trees

As if such a thing exists

The inside of my brain feels like a dungeon at times

I imagine my creativity truly is stifled in there

Because it sure has been absent these past few months

Life indeed has become an endless drone of normalcy, pockmarked by brief moments of.. liberation?

Is that how I’d describe it?

I’m not sure.

I do feel like there is a version of me, dead within my bones

I walk around in her carcass, pantomiming what she would do and say but her essence was dimmed quite a while ago.

I still bathe in the brief moments of happiness I experience but the ever-persistent doubt lingers

It hangs over my head like a guillotine, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Yet, even as my sense of self withers away like smoke in the wind..

I am even surer of myself in a way that seems almost obnoxious

I still don’t understand the purpose of life. I’m beginning to think I never will.

But I do hope to, one day, understand what I am doing here.

Not in a way that hearkens back to my dark youth, where thoughts of suicide plagued almost every moment of my waking life

Instead, in a way that keeps me throttling forward, day after day.