Well…

It's honestly like banging your head against a wall you don't even notice. Trying over and over; expecting this time will be different than the last like an addict needing their fix. Knowing, that no matter how hard you try, you'll end up stopping from the force. Not because you want to, but because you do. Believing, in some messed up way, that the world will somehow bend itself over to let you through. But you know it won't. You know it never will.

It's hard. Every day feels like it would be a good day to say the end. But you won't. Not for yourself, but for the few left around you. A sacrifice of the self to keep the peace. And they see that. But they stay silent and ignore it. Honestly? I think it's because I'm scared. The end means closing the book, setting it on the shelf to collect dust until someone remembers it and looks again, their experience no longer authentic but painted in memories of that first time. But there can only be a first time once.

Waking isn't the struggle. It's not drive. It's not passion. It's apathy. What's it matter what I want to do when the moment I try, it all comes draining away? Why bother to write that book or paint that painting when the moment apparatus touches canvas, the desire flows away like sand on the wind.

I try. But is it enough? Am I even coherent?

Or am I as mad as I think I am?