The days are becoming a blur. A sickening blend of everything and nothing. You could almost call it a bad high - if it had any of the slightest pleasure of one. I have felt too much, and now I have become too little. I have negated myself and I am a walking dream in this waking nightmare. Now if only I could remove myself from the equation.

I feel so heavy. And my bones, with rusted joints, need far too much care and coaxing to move. And I'll be honest - it hurts to stay in bed all day. But it hurts to make myself exist, too. It hurts to breathe. What is the point? How can I help anyone - how could I love anyone - when I can barely take care of myself?

I keep waiting for my knight in shining armor. I keep waiting for my true love to materialize out of thin air, here to save the day and tell me that everything is going to be alright.

I keep writing, as if it will keep me numb and from feeling.

And as much as it burns my lungs,
I keep breathing.

I keep hanging on, for some possibility of a promise that the air will clear and the sun will shine through the dust and smog, and bring me a beautiful day, and a beautiful love -  and I will wipe the mud from my face. And by the grace of god, maybe one day, I will be beautiful enough to deserve.