Not Making Any Sense, As Usual.

There really is nothing worth a story within my current life, thus I don’t feel the need to bore anyone with my long and unacceptable act of rant. I am going to keep my mouth shut for once, and pretend as if nothing will ever matter. I am pretty good at it, after all.

Life could get a bit lonely at times, but then again, I am always lonely; like all the time. I am used to that, because obviously growing up is like going to school without knowing it and bam, in the end you just end up with all these knowledge you’re not sure about and act as if they will matter one day.

I am running low on the imagination and it caused the lack of self esteem and ideas to write and pursue my creative writing. Perhaps I should blame something right about here, but I can’t find the perfect words to describe this despair I feel at the pit of my stomach. Even with that, I just don’t feel like moving on.

Nothing is making sense in my life right now—not even my sanity, or my ability to close my eyes and shut the damn world out from my mind. Yeah, I think I am somehow losing my mind with this continuous silence and loneliness as my companion but even on my better days, I am always at the edge of losing my mind, and everything else in the process.

Let’s look at this as an effort I showed to prove that I should write, even when my words don’t make any sense and my horrible grammar is calling for some grammar ninja assassin to chase my ass around with machetes. Ignoring that, I shall revive these dying brain cells of mine, or else I might as well lose my mind for good.

Truth is, I am feeling utterly useless. My existence doesn’t make any sense, just like my brain and my sanity. I am here, but I may not even be here in reality. You know what I mean, the void feeling in my stomach every time I think about a day from now. I don’t want to say the future, because that sounds so cliché and again, mainstream.

I am just thankful I am able to survive yet another day, and have to put up another fight to battle tomorrow. In the end, what I think and what I write don’t make up any logical sense. I appreciate the time you spent to read my ridiculous piece of shit right here, and once again, I love you all. I just don’t love myself, end of story.