Breathing

Still breathing, is about all I can say. I'm trying to think of words that would mean something more, but I guess that's all i can settle for.

Sometimes people can't ever forget, what's worse is when two people can't forget. I've dwelled and dwelled on the past so much, that now that I look around, I see how many changes have occured in just one year, or two, or more. Where did all that time go, I guess into that empty part of me that I keep on trying to fill and won't ever be filled -- not the way I keep on living this life. What's the point of my life when I've reached 27 and everyone else has outpaced me, even the people I was holding hands with trying to help; and now they have their own lives, their own futures and responsibilities. And here I am, just me, just the same person. Have I grown any? Maybe a little, emotionally, but that isn't a whole lot to say, when life seems more like a game of putting everything ahead of emotions.

I'm walking backwards and no one is waiting for me. I'd cry about it, but I've already cried about things like this enough.

I think I'm getting better at endings, and that isn't something to be proud of; shouldn't a person be getting better at not having to end things? Maybe I shouldn't feel so responsible for other people's lives, but even if I shouldn't, I would. It's like breathing, and if that part was lacking, I wouldn't be this mess of who I am.

Breathing each day, is harder than living. Being whatever kind of person I am, makes living seem like an impossibility, especially when I'm so dark down in this hole, and the people I rely on have so many of their own problems that I find myself pulling them down with me -- I can't do that. So it's just another night. Night, after night, after night of solitude, of that gnawing desperation inside that I don't know how to escape, fill it up with chemicals, fill it up with sleep, fill it up with anything; it just won't get better until this head gets better and it's been several years I've been stuck with this cold, but these past few months have turned into one of the worst winters I've known. The last winter like this, I was in a hospital, hooked up to machines feeling nothing, not wanting to feel anything, and it took months to feel something, but I still didn't find myself, and I still didn't find that life I used to have and still wish I had, and I still didn't find a new life.

I don't live in the past as much as I used to, but I do so more than other people. I know most people don't cry at night about things that could of, would of, might of, or just cry because, hey, I felt alive that day or week or month and now I don't feel alive.

I don't feel alive, and I am not living, I'm just breathing, and it's becoming hard to breath.