Too often, the only escape is sleep.
I get up to face the day and I am unsatisfied, it doesn’t make sense.
Most people say another day is a blank page, become anew, start over.
but as I was curled into a knot of empty disasters that paper was torn.
I tried using it but my pen ran out of ink and I had no more strength.
so I got up and tried to face the day, and the same thing happened.
I’m empty again.
my personality varies from unbearably clingy to disturbingly distant and there is no inbetween
not much feels the same anymore to be honest. everything is just motion now.