I don't know how to write anymore, as if I have absolutely no purpose to use myself for.  The time on the wall, concealed in the clock, ticks and chimes at every mistake I've ever made. They've come back to me, but I wish they'd leave to go back to the damning place they had first crawled  from. I feel sick, a hole my stomach has ****** itself into. There's nothing special about me, a broken mind alone with it's thoughts. My jealously grows, envious vines that consume my soul and eat away my sanity. Even when I shut myself away, my own self isolation, I still hope to be found, to be pulled out of myself. Hoping for someone to keep me out of myself, but as much as I should hope to be found I cannot only rely on anyone to find me. I wish it could be as easy as falling down a well, my only job to wait for someone to crawl down and bring me out, without myself having to truly help myself. I cannot choose to not be like this, it's almost chemical, hardwired into the makeup of my mind. It's not as simple as flipping a switch, to change a light bulb that can no longer light itself, this is a poison. A poison that is inky and black and fills my veins until my organs give out. I can't be found when I leave. How long I wait until I realize no one will find me or follow me or pull me from myself is up to me. My own silly delusion of being saved. It's just the waiting. The waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. Maybe the waiting will **** me first.