Crimson Tears

So what can I say? I can't sleep again. I don't know how it was before, I don't remember what does it mean to love life. Now I absolutely hate it, and sometimes between those blankets in the dark I would rather give it up. Sometimes life is just a long bad movie that you don't want to watch, because you can't participate. Everyone seems to have a role in it, so they put on their masks and act serenely. I can't. There must be something wrong in me, like a defected model. Why isn't there a role for me? I just don't fit in the existing ones.

I want to lose my senses so much, this desire is constantly with me. I can't even go to sleep, sleeping pills have no effect on me but I take them anyway, I don't know why. And that blade is still there, shining invitingly, imploring me to use it. It is calling me back to reality: crimson tears on my skin is the only proof that I'm really there. Reality. I don't even know what that is anymore. I walk in grey fog all the time, I never sleep but still I don't wake up. The only thing that appears colorful in my view of the world is my own bright red blood.

I don't know why my mind is so perversely attracted by everything that is self-destructive. The thought of searing self-inflicted pain is constantly in my head, there's no way to turn it off, I think about it all the time. I lie in my bed wide awake while the rest of the world is sleeping and sometimes I think that it would be so much easier just not to be anymore. But other times I consider my pain, physical and psychological, self-inflicted and that caused by others and it is so intense an emotion that it is one big proof that I exist. All those people, those actors, are they really alive? Often the world seems so surreal to me, a big blur of people. Most of them are all the same, but others don't mix up in the blur. They are sharply shaped, I can recognize them because they are like me, they really do exist.