Routines are the mind's way of playing tricks on you.
And when you reach a point of breaking, a point of severe uncontrollable emotional damage,
The damage, of course, inflicted upon you by yourself,
Will suffocate you and in the process, proceed to shove you against a wall without any last words.
And in that moment, you feel like crying,
But you know, that there is no point in crying anymore.
There is no point in pondering, no point in asking, "why?"
You will find that you, yourself are nothing but a mere fraction of the mammalia kingdom,
With nothing but processed emotions, fake attitudes, controversial peers, and material objects that mean absolutely nothing to the outside observer.
You are nothing but a stupid monkey with "designer" fashion,
Nothing but a human with this bizarre concept of love that masks the lust you feel deep in the night as you crave someone's arms around your broken body.
You are nothing but a victim to life and all of life's offerings.
I am nothing.
I am minuscule.
I am a victim to society,
A victim to pop culture,
A victim to perfection,
A victim to succeed,
A victim to wealth and prosperity,
A victim to living in its own,
But most importantly, I am a victim to my own mind.
And that, I feel, is the single most cruel thing that could possibly happen to myself.
There is no point in success without a driving force pushing you to succeed,
And if I were granted success with no specific driving force then why should I be granted it?
If I worked for hours just scraping the surface of some magical discovery only to be brought down with negative feedback,
Why do I fail?
Why do I fail constantly?
Why do I tell myself that I am smart when I do nothing to prove so?
I am nothing but a victim to my own mind,
And the only escape is to die.
I am nothing.
