I am twenty-five. I feel far older. I don't know why I can't sleep. I never sleep. Everything hurts. Everything is so loud and silent at the same time. Sometimes I log on to SF or random places just to assure myself that other living beings are awake. That I'm not the only soul drowning in my thoughts. I don't have any relief from this hell. Everything is gone and nothing matters. It's all turning into rust. I've tried. I've reached out for help. I've paid my dues in asylums. I've spent my childhood years on medicines. It doesn't get better for everyone. We can't all have the major roles in this play...some of us never even make it to the stage. What's the point? Where is the plot? No one cares. The world doesn't care about us. The others don't understand this pain that we feel so deeply that it rips and destroys our flesh from the inside. Why do we try to continue on? Why do we have to be happy? When did being happy become mandated? I was never suppose to be this old. I can't relate to my family. I can't connect with others my age. It's become as if everyone is speaking another language I don't speak but yet they expect me to be the guest speaker. My eyes are burning. It's late. The dark is always the longest. My throat feels chalky. Dry. My body is dry. I don't cry anymore. There is no true emotion that has remained. All I have is the worn out paint that stains the mask I wear. My facade. How do I make this stop? I want it to stop. I'm tired. I don't know who this is anymore. Where did I go? I think I miss me even if I don't remember what I was like. Fifteen years and counting. No one ever comes back alive after being missing for that long. No one ever gets seen after being invisible for that long. I'm Transparent.