I don't know how to explain what I feel anymore.
These words I'm writing feel foreign and thick, like they're really not my own anymore.
Did I sell out? No, there was no compensation. If anything, I sold little pieces of my soul every time I wrote something.
Some words should just be kept private.
Yet no matter what I do, I can feel them, hear them, pushing away at my skull and making my fingers fly across the keys.
Somehow nothing quite right comes out.
At this point, I have nothing to lose, nothing to fear. It used to be a thrill to hit publish, but now I just sigh and ignore the comments.
I read them, sure, but there's nothing remarkable anymore. Though I'm happy people can connect, can like it, the depressing fact settles in my stomach that none of you know me.
If you were to see me on the street, your eyes would pass over me.
Because though my words are a tribute to my life, to others, and to my imagination, they don't stay with you. They stay in the vast unknown of computer codes and modules, and someday, they'll be forgotten about.
What made me who I am seems to have disappeared. My words aren't written for the fun of it, but for the sake of spilling my guts somewhere that no one can truly hurt me, even though each sentence I make feels like razors cutting into my skin.
That idea doesn't seem so bad anymore, though.
These days, I fight back tears and dig my nails into my palm, for seemingly no reason at all. I want to fucking scream; I fight the urge to smash windows, bottles, anything that will make a loud noise. Because the sounds can cover up the anger and agression that is raging inside me.
Why do I write anymore?
They aren't made for enjoyment, but because I need to lie to myself and say that there's someone out there that might care for me, or at least about my writing.
But I don't really know why I write at all.
I don't even know why I'm still here.
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