The days roll by in an interwoven melange of repeating itself and worsening my mood as a whole. I am sitting at home, escaping into the webs I wove online, into the small reclusive area in a game that I can call my own, that I can somewhat control and keep safe. My little safe haven. My palace on which to tinker, my pets to care for and my in game friends to talk to. It is like I am more alive behind a monitor than I am away from it. It feeds into the illusion and addiction I have with games, it is escapism, it is burying my head into the sand and hoping the bad things will just go away, but they won’t and I know it and condemn myself for every single time I log off to go to sleep.

But I do try to force myself to smile every time I look into a mirror or see my reflection, which to a certain extent works to lighten my mood a little, even if only for a short while, but sometimes it just annoys me. Sometimes I want to punch the face that is looking at me, see the lack of life in my eyes and just want to curl up and not exist. I see myself as a wreck, a lost and forgotten projectile of a war machine that was built for a war that never came, nor ever should exist. Going aimlessly at whichever object is in front of me and destroying it utterly, only to go on, each time a bit more damaged, never healing.

I do, however, sometimes challenge myself, I do go out and try new things, or old things I dared not repeat. Even small and simple things as just going outside, talking to people, just because I happen to see them. Or even just saying Hi from time to time. I’ve become more and more reclusive again and I know it. I am alone, I feel alone and unwanted. There really is no one I feel that could just make my heart feel lighter again, even if only for the briefest of moments. Just the release of this tension, this ever pressing force. All I ask for is a breather, but I will not be granted one.

So I get scared that I am unwanted, unneeded, that my fears are irrational and I am stupid for listening to them, that I am weak and useless, I should be more productive, more assertive. I should be who I believe I should be, or at least the Mr. Perfect in me. He tells me everything I’ve done wrong, he tells me all I ever do is half-assed and not good enough. So why even bother? I cannot ask for help either, because that is a sign of weakness, a sign that Mr. Perfect is right, I have to do it myself. Mr. Perfect demands this of me. So he can never ever be right, but he is also never wrong, this circle is wearing me down, and while I can use alcohol to break the spell for a moment, this is not a good coping mechanism either.

I feel like I am stuck, cannot move, not progress, but can fall backwards. Rereading the old chapters of my life, lingering on the blackest of pages and reciting the days over and over. I am stuck in this circle of misery.

A bell chimes from downstairs,

the clock my grandfather left me

it is as if it is telling me

that my time is up

has been up

has come and gone

and I just was forgotten

not even death remembers me

my torment is here,

no fresh new start

no solitude of endless nothing


And the bell rings again.

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