Tired, sometimes.

  October comes around. November follows. December sets in and before I know it, January arrives. The other months step in line and continue on into oblivion. I page through a history book, newspaper or wiki link, it all shows patterns. Times are changing, times are stagnant, time is irrelevant. What I want is death. Why? Because life has no meaning. I look back at what I’ve done and I just don’t see what good any of it will do. I’ve failed more than I’ve succeeded. Nothing is worth it.

  Just the other day, my friend called saying another has passed away. I hardly knew whoever it was and just shrugged it off. It felt heartless and cold, but I did it anyway. I’ve done worse, so it didn’t faze me too much. I thought this as I made my way to work, where I get minimal respect and have to slave away for just above nine bucks an hour. Fast food will drain all my energy. I have a girlfriend as well, but we never talk. I always assume she’s busy and we never meet, though we text occasionally. It feels like I’m beginning to lose her, but what have I gained at all? I haven’t been a good boyfriend and I’m afraid of what our future would be. This jumping around endlessly is tiring.

  I clock in on schedule, as I never know if my bosses want me working now, earlier or later. I’m never included in discussions, as my life’s decisions are made without me. Something must change or give way so I may find out what is to become of me, but I need to wash my hands and head to the kitchen.

  Time fades and eventually my break arrives. I don’t talk with the other employees except for small talk. They’re either all younger or much older than myself. I don’t fit in here, but I’ve never fit in really anywhere. Depression isn’t something I’ve thought much about, yet I do enjoy…what? What do I truly enjoy?

  I can’t finish the thought since I must check back in and continue working. Take the dough, check the dough, add sauce, cheese, needed toppings, and put it in the oven. Rinse, repeat. Stock shelves as necessary. Clean when there’s downtime and never talk back, even when they’re wrong. It won’t change anything, anyway.

  Time has passed and the work is over. I’ve stocked and prepared for the next morning. I say goodbye and be polite as I can, feeling that’s the sole thing I have control over.

  My parents are struggling. I am a burden that must be carried. Twenty years of existing and this is all I have to show of it. Nothing. Even this is a tedious exercise that I’m sure is boring you. I would apologize and say I’d try better, but it feels useless to do so. What purpose is there in me divulging my worthless life’s details? Maybe if I showed you what’s happened, it’d be easier. But there’s no happiness here, nothing to make you feel any better about yourself, except maybe that your life is not as bad as mine. And if its worse, then you may feel as I do. Not much to say, but I’ll give you a couple run of the mill instances that may enlighten you to my plight.

  Waking up, I see a mess. Clothes haphazardly flung every direction. Junk food wrappers and soda cans fill remaining space and I’m clutching the blanket for the remaining warmth that’s still clinging to the cotton.

  I hate mornings. My door has been broken leaving me with minimal privacy. I only am grateful for living on the second floor alone, where my family lives clustered together on the opposite side of the house. Occasionally they will yell up to summon me or ascend the stairs themselves to deal with me. If it’s my father, my name will echo in my eardrums for some time and will promptly be followed by a variant of, “Come on, you’ll be late for school/work/miscellaneous appointment here!” or perhaps, “Your mother wants you down here for some reason,” or, “I need you to do something for me!”

  He’s not a hard or demanding father, at all. Yet I know I disappoint him and he doesn’t view what I do as meaningful at times. My mother will be a bit overbearing if it’s her, calling my name again and again until I loath its sound. How can one’s own name be such a horrendous thing to hear from my own loving mother? Her remarks are often a request or demand of sorts, or demanding an explanation of why something has yet to be accomplished. Often I’ll hear, “Take care of this/that/the other for me, will you?” or, “Why isn’t this/that/the other done already?” and often, “Are you even listening to me?!”

  I love them both, but it can be tiresome to have the commands constantly flowing when you’re already trying to take care of something else. And sometimes, my siblings will try a similar tactic and barge in without saying why. I love my family, but they are a large source of irritation plenty of the time.

  I think I mentioned my girlfriend once. Once we were madly in love and I would do anything she asked, regardless of what the request was. Now, we rarely speak. I feel terrible and angry at the same time. For five years we’ve done this dance and nothing is sticking. I feel like a failure.

  Have I come downstairs yet? Not usually. Something pressing must be occurring for that to happen. Otherwise, I’m lost in these thoughts

  I’ve grabbed whatever my nose deems clean, unless there’s nothing available or something glaringly obvious I washed recently, as in still in the laundry basket. I fish out some kind of pants and a button up shirt or t-shirt variant. I’ve been noticing fewer details lately. Things fade in and out. My work shirt is a dark green with the company logo and black pants and black shoes. I tend to wear jeans of varying shades of blue. My shirts are either solid colored or possessing a pattern of lines. How vague. How unnoticeable. How forgettable.

  When I get downstairs, there’s usually a dog in my way. He’s my dog, since I’m the only one who spent any time with him as a pup and walk him almost every day. Except recently. I’ve been avoiding him and he knows it. He follows me and barks at me and wags his tail expectantly. I usually shove him away or force my way around him. I’m not as nice feeling as I remember. I’m bitter now. I don’t know why.

  More small talk is made about how I’ve failed to accomplish some sort of chore or another while hearing about whatever deed my siblings have down and wrote off. Things take more effort now, and I feel sickly. In my mind, not so much as my body. But I get illogical aches and pains, sometimes just from playing on my computer. This all seems wrong to me. It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always so negative.

  I had hopes for what I would do in this world. I had hoped to write and entertain the masses, to give them something to occupy an hour or so of their time and move on with a smile upon their faces. Yet I hate how things are going. Life has no meaning, and what I wanted to give now seems superfluous. It’s all pointless garbage that no one would want to pay any mind to. It’s all shit.

  I scramble about, mishearing something a parent has said. My mind’s so scrambled it doesn’t seem I’m connecting to reality. “Stop playing your damned videogames. Get in the real world.” His words echo in my mind. My passions and desires are things of ridicule from my own family. Society as a whole views my activities as worthless. A gamer is a central part of my self-image, and it would seem that the very games I’ve so loved and enjoyed cause me to rage at my losses and further spin me into doubt. What the hell could I offer the world in this state? Do they even deserve it? Would they even care? I have no way of knowing, but the answer doesn’t seem to be good.

  If it’s one of the two days I go to school now, I enter in with my brother, who is one of the brightest and positive people I know. Yet he is constantly in motion and busy with his daily struggles. Somehow, he has overcome them and success naturally follows in his wake. I have distanced myself from him, however. I wouldn’t want to ruin or imped any of his progress. Displaying any of these negative thoughts would put an unnecessary burden on his already stacked plate. These are thoughts I must contend with on my own. Bringing in others is a foolish and selfish endeavor.

  I made that error, however. The other night I sent her a text about it, about my thoughts and feelings. She’s been depressed for a long time and battles daily with anxiety issues. I left it rather off-handedly, but she got it out rather quickly. I just feel drained, so often and tired that it slipped. I even told her about my life pro/con list I had written. I didn’t tell her I was done, or that I had left the pro section blank. It’s not that I’m in tears over it. More like a rational calm about the possibility of death. Life and death are separated only by the act of dying. Death is not something people fear, though they may claim it. I believe it is the act of dying that frightens them. Death is just sleep. Or as far as we know. The unknown is also a thing of fright, and that may be it as well.

  Never have I been this disorganized. Except for my room, I’ve usually kept thoughts in some kind of order. I don’t like being robbed of that. But my mind feels alien to me. Something is wrong and I can’t figure it out. Maybe I should fight it, but isn’t that what living is about? A fight to the death, in which death wins anyway? Prolonging the inevitable is a fruitless task many have said and claimed. Why so with life? What is it that drives humanity onward? I don’t understand it anymore.

  I didn’t say much to my brother, letting him talk to me about his day and the mammoth schedule he has undertaken. Impressive, to say the least, but I simply smile and congratulate him or say something funny and witty. All meaningless. Inadequate would be an apt description of my current confidence. How pitiful.

  Yet if I show this, it will only go to prove my points. Only someone who’s weak entertains the idea of death, yet I do so. A train passes by our house not two blocks away. My only fear is that it wouldn’t be instantaneous. Perhaps I could stage some sort of crime, but I would have to put faith in the officer leaning towards deadly force. But both of those methods would require me to endanger another person’s conscience with my blood on their hands, even if I wished it. That’s terribly unfair. I lack the means and courage to do the deed myself, so I sit here, wallowing in self-pity.

  I’ve kept up the charade though. I keep a smile on when I need to and act as best I can. Being the lead in several plays does lend some credibility towards my ability to appear as one thing while hiding completely different emotions in my heart. It frightens me how cold I’ve gotten. What person would have such hideous views tucked away in their heart? Someone who has committed sins unforgiveable.

  A game I played, titled Amnesia, puts you in an old castle and has you trying to solve puzzles to further your progress while also contending with monsters trying to kill you without the ability to fight back. The protagonist leaves a note in the beginning about why they chose to erase their memory voluntarily. I knew perfectly well from the moment I began play. They have done an evil so terrible it shudders the soul of the culprit for the rest of their days. I have my sins, and I must live with them. Yet if there was another option besides dying, amnesia would be a way of obtaining a clean slate.

  School incidents happen now. They mostly happen with me standing by now. I feel weak and try to avoid participating without the teacher’s notice. I want to stop existing. Passively fade away would be my dream of late.

  Yet suicide is a coward’s act and fate that I’ve long since told myself. I had never thought how much pain one must feel in order to view that has the only escape. I never had pity in my heart for that. How ironic when I place myself into that very role. What a hypocrite.

  Another allude to acting. That’s the original definition of a hypocrite, an actor. It was Jesus who claimed the Pharisees to being just that, actors. I’m just a fake, I realize now. I wanted to be a hero, but I’m just a nobody. My life holds no meaning. There’s no reason for me to keep this up. Other than those around me, I have no ties here. It’s become a measure of how much pain can I hold verses how bad am I willing to hurt those who love me. For now, I’d rather hold onto that pain than harm them. That’s the only thing keeping suicide at bay. If I could give my life for a greater purpose, however, I might be saved of some of the harm that would have inflicted upon them if I hid it as I gave up my life. A heroic, romantic, idiotic ideal. That’s all my mind has left now. Pitiful phantoms of glory and heroism that I wish to emulate. Still more bullshit. The defining measure of a hypocrite.

  The day passes. I observe. What is the difference going on now? Between me and them? I don’t know. I don’t envy them, I’m actually glad. Maybe things will grow bright again. There is beauty in the world. Beauty that I will never pass along. My works are not of that grand standard. I want to sleep. But I always want to sleep. I want to disconnect from the world. I want to hide away from it all. They’ll do fine without me. I need to figure out the puzzle of escape, however.

  What do I need to do to stop this feeling of suffering?

  Should I even try to?

  Right now, I don’t think the answer is yes. But I still wish it could be.