I cant remember the last time I felt the real pang of depression. Their words just pass through me, it doesn't sting anymore. The way you constantly make me feel inadequate doesn't even bother me like it used to . And sometimes, then I wonder, what if i got so used to the constant pain and sadness, that I, in a sick distorted way, made the feeling normal, and live in it, like it is my shadow, unfurling and consuming me, turning me to stone. But it scares me, the way I just don't seem to feel. I'd never be good enough, I would never be good enough; that is something I've seemed to tell myself so much that now it just causes a slight shrug, or the soft remembrance of that sickening feeling in your stomach right before you were about to cry. Am I okay ? Would I be considered okay ? Why can't I show empathy for the people I care about ? Where has my emotion gone. I see the world in varying shades of grey. There is nothing exciting to my life anymore, I have given up what once seemed to be enjoyable, and replaced it with this sickening grey tinted glasses. I can't draw, my imagination always evades my endeavors to express what I keep bottled in the far depths of my rusted soul. I can't paint. I've lost the joy of colour and everything I create is never good enough ( Like myself.) But, somewhere inside my head, I do know that I'm somewhat comfortable with this lack of feeling. I don't mind not crying, not feeling, not expression. I feel like I am just a fleeting shadow on life's tapestry, not even an image. But I do not mind the lack, *I have made the grey scale my home, and the shadows are my friends.