It's relentless, day after day, I come out the other end of it, empty, tired. I work, so I can live, but what sort of life is a solitary one, sitting at home each evening, because I just don't have it in me to do any more. This life has expectations, things we 'should' do, thinks we have to do to exist within it, but there is a big difference between those such as courtesy, politeness, things that only enhance the world for everyone, and being a cog in this infernal machine called capitalism, which only benefits the few at the cost of the many. On top of that, to put it so simply, I'm depressed. It's like running a race carrying the Atlas stones, it takes so much just to bare their weight, let alone actually move forward with them. And yes, this is ridiculously hyperbolic, but there are only so many words in the world, and I feel like I've used them all at one point or another to try to get across these feelings, these thoughts, this ridiculous mess of string knotted in and around my brain. The question I keep asking is what do I do? I'm barely surviving now, without a reason to live, without the strength or will to find one... the inertia of my existence is too strong, and every small change I try to make seems to end up taking me nowhere, before pulling me back in. Sometimes I feel it, a shadow of a shadow, maybe just an echo of the memory of a time where I could impact my own world. And I grasp at it, almost catch it, then fall flat on my face again. I used to write, I used to be able to form reasonable meaningful connections with people, I used to enjoy the new, a story, a creative work. There was respite, there were pleasures, there was proof that I might be able to get beyond this, that it was possible for me to feel otherwise. But most of that feeling was leeched from others, so in the end... I'm nothing. I don't matter in this world, I'm not someone who people give a damn about, not really. And I guess the reason I say that is if I disappeared tomorrow, who would know? Who would try to find me? Who would assume that my disappearance was anything more than happenstance? Though I guess let me put a bit of a disclaimer on that, if I handed in my notice at work tomorrow, and moved house, or even just claim to... that's all it would take. For weeks no-one would think anything, and beyond that only my mother would probably be concerned... but I could explain it away first. Give me 30 minutes and I could pretty much ensure that my absence would go unremarked for months. That's not the mark of someone who actually matters in the slightest in this world. If they knew, a few people would mourn perhaps, or wish they could have done more, or seen it coming, in the way that people always say after someone dies, but that if they had cared enough in the first place... well I doubt I would feel so bad. Right now I want to die... for the last 15, 16 years I've wanted to die most of the time so no change there I guess. But now I think I can just shrink away, there's no consequence to the loss of my life, as it's worth nothing, beyond in the sort of vague, wishy-washy "all life is important" way which annoys me no end. It's not life itself, but the ability to live it, and right now... I just can't.