The awkwardness of living.

I left the house for the first time in at least a month, it might have been two; I have lost track of time. It’s strange, trying to integrate. I feel dissociative. I feel like I’m not a part of this place, just an observer, just someone watching with the flat affect, that humdrum numbness that is beginning to seep into everything. It is right sometimes, that apathy; it makes me perfect. It makes me…unaffected.

I didn’t feel any anxiety, more of an awkwardness. This hasn’t happened in a long time. There was no pulling from the bottom of my stomach, no lurch that made me want to run to the nearest corner and vomit. The cold sweat never came, my voice was quiet, but steady. Acceptance, I guess. Acceptance that though I am nothing to these people and they are nothing to me, in order to survive I have to tolerate them. It didn’t hurt; I can’t feel anything right now anyway.

I was standing in line for coffee. No, I didn’t force my mother to go get it for me; I took the money and went to the register myself without even thinking about it. She was on the other side of the store. It sounds like nothing, but my misanthropy and introverted nature have made simple tasks like that absolute torture. The looks, the eyes I can feel burning into me. The knowledge that my ineptness is completely and totally visible, that I am making a fool of myself before I even speak. This usually floods me, but not this time, not when everything is so impossibly cut off, disconnected. I’m more like something automated than something living.

The awkwardness came when I realized I didn’t know who was next; I assumed I was, but the woman behind me had moved toward the register and I just stood there. I blinked, thought about it, and stayed exactly as I was. I wasn’t in a hurry, and I really couldn’t care less if she went ahead of me. Then she tells me to go, smiling. I say sorry, and mutter something about not paying attention.

Again, this sounds normal. It sounds like any everyday event. But the fact is, standing in front of a cash register and having to order something and converse with an employee is more painful to me than something dying. I feel it like a tragedy. It builds like some sort of fucked up finale: standing, waiting, knowing that impending doom is coming for me. That soon, I’m going to have to talk to whoever is standing there, I’m going to have to feign that the last flitting thought through my head was not about sticking one of my hands into the blender sitting on the tabletop. Then, ding. I’m next.

I had a bit of a breakdown today. I threw a silent tantrum and binged on everything I could find in the pantry. I must have eaten two days’ worth of food (at least by my meager standards). I had to get my mind off of the thoughts, I had to concentrate on feeling something besides complete agony. Breathing, existing…it hurts more than anything sometimes. I wanted to sleep, but it seemed that no one would have it. The cat meowed, attempting to rip the tape I’d stuck to the bottom of my door to block out the sound of existence. I locked the door, but people tried to get in anyway. Finally I managed a few hours. I woke up ravenous and dull feeling. I ate sugar like it was a drug; I needed the shock to my system because I was feeling so incredibly low.

I hate these mood swings. My six month diet change has altered everything, made it all worse. I’ve menstrated twice this month, which to me is bizarre after having times in the past where I’ve gone years without a single period. But it makes me emotional in a very strange way. I cry for stupid reasons, but yet I don’t feel it…. How to explain…. It’s like I’m crying for how sad I am, but I’m using other things in order to pry the tears out of myself. So I’m not crying for the movie, I’m crying for the residules of whatever this is. The darkness. Because I can never cry for it. I never get to shed it; it just stays there, impervious to everything. Perhaps then, I do need to mood swings, if only to vent.

It’s ridiculous what effects me and what doesn’t. My boldness shows in some places, yet shrinks in others. I wore my corset to the stores, and didn’t cover it up with a jacket. Just didn’t care. I like it, I felt like wearing it. People stared and I didn’t care. Where I live isn’t exactly the place to dress up; I was out of place. How fitting. Sometimes I think I like that they know it, others…I’m not so sure. But why can I wear what I wish yet not present myself without feeling incredibly inadequate/out of place? I want to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. 

It’s been a long day. I need more sleep.

There reaches a point…where it just isn’t worth it.

This is going to be very misanthropic, and honestly, I’m going to convince myself not to care. I always try to avoid going too far, revealing what I really think, but there’s just been too much going on lately for me to keep silent about it.

Life could be shitty, but nearly perfect, if there simply wasn’t anyone in my life. I realize that sounds like something an angsty teen would say, but the truth is, every problem that has been arising has been due to someone else’s negligence or lack of self control. I hate to lay the blame on other people; my own actions put me where I am today, I know that, that was all a result of my decisions. But what I don’t feel any regret about, is blaming someone for something they did do, that they did have control of.

I don’t want involvement with other people, on almost a holistic level. There are days where I don’t even want to watch television because I don’t want to see “normal” life, “normal” people. I don’t live “normal”. Chances are, when I wake up, I don’t know what time it is or what day of the week it is. I don’t care if tomorrow is election day, or if someone died yesterday. If it isn’t within my small scope of existence, in truth, it does not matter to me. Call it cruel, stupid, ignorant, whatever, but I do it for a reason: when I lived “normal” I couldn’t stand it. It drives me insane, and I mean that. It does something to my head, makes me stop ticking. It’s like being shut off, with an automated person taking over. I do things, but they don’t matter, I talk to others, and it doesn’t matter.

This life is based of off cooperation. It was designed that way. It’s not about the individual, no matter what people may try to sell you. I can’t escape having to interact. I can’t run away from my life without serious consequences.

I think there is a part of me that must need some sort of interaction at this point. That is why there’s this blog and a million other avenues through the internet that I constantly abuse. Secretly I keep believing that I’ll wake from my little nightmare. Perhaps that is why I haven’t burned all that many bridges. I keep thinking I might need them someday.

Someday? What day? I don’t even want to make it to 20. That was one of the main reasons I no longer attend college; I didn’t have a “foreseeable” future. I didn’t want to waste 3 years trying to earn a paper that I honestly…was never planning on using. And that’s the truth. I wasn’t sure I would be around another year. How do you say to your parents: “I don’t want you paying for my college because I don’t plan on living long enough to complete the degree, let alone use it”?

The point of this ridculousness, is that life was made so that it is about people interacting. We, as human beings, have made it this way not only out of ease, but preference. And I just fucking don’t want any part of it. I never really did. People are worthless, they fix nothing. They make me feel worse instead of better and further my hatred, so why bother? Any day I want, I can delete all that I’ve written. It can all be gone. I can turn it all off and never face it again, as though it never was. The great thing is, you can do that with your life too. Flip a switch and off it goes.

Beyond Reason

Long time, no post. Unusual for me. It’s the holidays; they grind my soul into sand. Nothing much has happened, Christmas was interesting (originally I intended to post about it, but I abandoned that one to the ‘draft’ section), yet uneventful at the same time. My depression is worse, what else is new. The honest truth, is that I have had a lot to write about it, I just…haven’t. I keep making drafts and then storing them away to never be looked at again. I don’t even take the time to finish them.

I made a resume up yesterday and sent a cover letter with it. I asked about a job at a mortuary (no, not at all kidding), and they said that although they didn’t have any current openings, that I could send in a resume anyway. They know I have no experience, so, at least they wanted that much. I don’t expect anything, but at least I have a resume now, even if it is rather pathetic. They won’t even hire me at Safeway, so good luck anywhere else…haha.

I keep having really bad days, really bad. I’m sleeping more, and all of my health problems seem to be worsening. My hair is falling out almost in locks, which scares me. My hands never seem to get warm, always chilled to the touch, even when I manage to heat my room to almost 70 degrees while it’s almost in the negatives outside. I wear gloves inside sometimes, and the rest of the time I just ignore it, like right now, even though they are so cold they ache. I guess it doesn’t matter, none of it does, really.

Is this what hell feels like? I hope it’s warmer there. All I want to do is sleep, but I’ve been writing anyway, pretending I’m okay. I’m not hiding it well, so I keep telling my family that I am just tired. Yes, tired after 12 hours of sleep…. Tired after doing nothing, day after day. Hmm. And they believe me. It doesn’t matter though. No one will save me, and I don’t expect them too. I don’t want them to, not really.

I keep getting lonely, which is absolutely the stupidiest part of all of this. Lonely, for what? What do these people hold for me? They would never get it…would never fully comprehend what this is. The most I could hope for anyone is five seconds of feigned empathy then a door slammed in my face.

It’s all over, done with, that. There aren’t people to love, to care about. Love. Ha. I don’t even love my cat, and that is saying something, considering he just crawled behind me and is now meowing for attention. No. I love nothing. I’m incapable. But I am not incapable of hate, and for that I will be grateful, because there are some days that I just wouldn’t survive without it, that memory of what it feels like to be so thoroughly consumed by something so…evil. It’s perfect, if there is anything that can fit that definition. I want to hate everything again instead of just wasting away feeling nothing…. I want to be back on a plane of existence where there is nothing but me against the world instead of me against myself.

I want there to be a day where I wake up and decide that’s the day to die, where I am so certain it is beyond questioning. It is law. My law. My time. Is that too much to ask of this fucked up head of mine? Probably. How disappointing.

The heartless are always cold.

There’s something about being trapped inside a house that is both damaging on the brain yet at the same time, something that builds character. There’s a lot of snow. Enough that I won’t be leaving the house anytime soon. Normally, I’m one to absolutely content being indoors, but like all animals, I like to ‘prowl’ so to speak. Wander out into the woods with the option of never returning. The one thing about bad weather is that it also prevents other people from leaving the house, namely the people you live with.

I had one of those incredibly lonely days yesterday, the kind where I feel so hopeless and alone that it actually penetrates my numb barrier and physically hurts. I love being alone; I live for it. But every once in awhile I have one or two of those ‘days’, the irritating, human kind. It makes the monster in me snarl, and it causes me to crawl even further back into this black hole of nothingness. Those are always the worst days, because it makes me vulnerable, suddenly. The smallest criticism and I am on the verge of cracking, because what little confidence I had goes flying out the door without a backward glance, leaving me to fend off attacks with absoultely nothing. Needless to say, that is when it cuts the deepest.

My one companion my damn cat, he might be sick. He’s lost a few pounds (which I know is a hell of a lot for a cat), and is literally starting to get skinny, which is quite an accomplishment. I keep getting paranoid and hoping it isn’t a tumor or something. But he’s old too, (about 10), so maybe he is just slowing down a bit. He has been a lot pickier about food, so I’m thinking too that he might have lost some weight because he wasn’t eating what I was giving him (it’s hard to tell; other cat gobbles up the rest). I changed the food, and now he’s meowing and complaining less. I’m not going to jump to too many conclusions; I will just wait it out and see.

My mom is on memory medication. Her short term memory has declined lately, worse than it was before. She’s forgetting things one minute to the next, and I’m having to constantly remind her of things. Even when I do, she often still forgets. It could be from her head injury from before, or it could be something else (her grandmother had Alzheimer’s). They don’t know, and we can afford to go and have her checked out anyway. And the pills aren’t working so far, which is disappointing.

I’m very cold about it all, to the point that I’m sickened with myself. I should feel bad for her, but I don’t…I just feel…nothing. I want to be there to help, because she gets frustrated a lot with all of her problems (her hands don’t function well, and she often gets quite mad about it, along with many other side effects of her injury). But when the time comes, I stand there for a second then just walk away, like a wall of ice. I freeze up in a mental sense, feeling irritated with her for being irritated. Sometimes I even get mad, and just say something insensitive, without remorse (something along the lines of ’so? get used to it’, or ‘don’t get angry’). I don’t even feel it now, thinking about it, though I know I should.

I’m cutting myself off, more and more. Half the time, I don’t even know it is happening. My parents want to go visit my godparents around Christmas to see them and everything, yet all I can think is ‘can I stay home?’. My godparents are pretty good with me; I know they care. But for me, I just can’t extend the feelings required. It’s so fucking difficult that I can’t explain it. It’s there for my parents because I’ve been with them so long (and that, as you can tell from this entry, is limited in and of itself), but with everyone else I can’t feel shit. I can’t even care. I know that sounds impossible, but honestly, it’s almost like trying not to be mad at someone who royally fucked you over and made it blatantly clear that they don’t care that they did it. It’s just too damn strong to fight much against. There is just numb, and it doesn’t want to be shifted, so I can’t shift it.

I’m cold on the inside, apparently.

I’m beginning to think life itself is one of my bad habits.

My mood is…indescribable. Unfortunately not much can be said of the feeling of “nothing”.

I focus on one thing; it’s my way. I choose an activity, then I push my way with my stubborn skull until I get what I want. Basically life is distractions, my bad habits. They are all that keep me sane, grounded, in a world I despise more than anything. However, my short attention span causes me to develop newer habits to replace those that have become dull to me.

Dieting has always been a habit, since I was about 8 or 9 years old. Maybe a consequence of getting called fat for most of young life by not only bullies, but friends. I realize now that the only reason I was getting called fat was because all of my friends were tiny, petite things, while I was the complete opposite. Of course I had to wear bigger clothes than them, of course I was going to weigh more. But at the time, I couldn’t accept that as an answer. No matter what adults said, I could only believe my peers. I look back at the pictures now, and I understand just how brainwashed I was, so gullible. If I was ever “fat” back then, it would have been at the most, an extra 10 pounds. Obviously, even at my worst I would have been “chubby”, not grossly overweight as the kids around me had drilled into my head. It wasn’t until later that my weight was really a problem.

Bad habits developed quickly, permanently. For years it’s always been a battle. I hated my body more than anything, I hated how I’ve always had broad shoulders and big feet and could never look remotely like any of the other girls in my clothes. I always seemed to end up friends with the short, petite types, who were naturally thin (I knew one girl who used to eat about six chocolate chip cookies for lunch, then go home have a bowl of popcorn drenched in butter and then have a huge bowl of ice cream, then more cookies, all of this along with whatever else she ate…on a regular basis…she weighed in at 100 pounds…). The idea of “diet” to them was incomprehensible. They seemed to believe that everyone could shovel food down their throats and obviously anyone who was fat must have been doing something seriously wrong.

In 9th grade when I went on homeschool to get out of the bullying (so I thought) and the drama-filled friendships, I pretty much lost my sanity. My depression came out into full swing for the first time, after having held it back for two years with just…life. I was so busy I hadn’t had time to consider how unhappy I was. Then suddenly all I had was time. So much of it. I had to attend classes still, but most of them were done at home. With those few classes, there was ample opportunity for people to fuck with my head. I had thought that being fat was the only thing I had had to worry about, but in highschool the taunting reached entirely new heights. Even though I had gotten “skinny” like everyone had wanted, there was always something about me to hate. I must just be easy to despise.

Being thin hadn’t fixed anything. There are so many things that happened that I don’t even want to remember anymore. It culminated…then it blended into the darker corners of me, where it stays, driving me on with a relentless whip. All the heavy chains that I will forever bear….

My eating habits are worse than ever. I know now that my stupid hormone levels are affecting my weight, along with the typical slow metabolism. I’ve been obsessed with my weight lately, I guess because I have nothing else to focus on. My controlling nature has finally entered center stage with this issue. Like I’ve said, I always diet, but generally not to much avail, so I decided to change tactics. Instead of eating about 1500 calories (which ideally should make the average person lose weight slowly and without risking health, but of course doesn’t work for me), the past month I’ve been eating around 800 calories a day. I combine this with walking 3 or 4 miles, since I’ve been too lazy to start a more rigorous exercise regime. I’m actually losing weight, which is a nice change. The fact that it might be primarily muscle mass has me worried, but honestly I really just don’t give a shit at this point. I’m trying to make sure what I do eat is rich in protein and calcium, but given the perameters, options are strictly limited anyway. Not a healthy way to lose weight, obviously, so don’t try it at home. Yes, losing weight will never make others happy…but it makes me feel better. At this point, that is all that is behind my reasoning: me.

I don’t know why, but it hasn’t been half a difficult as I thought it would be. In fact, I went into the grocery store yesterday, into the bakery section and almost vomited from the smell of bread and confections. None of it looked good (though it was the same as ever), and I wasn’t even tempted. That’s pretty much the first time ever. All I wanted was out of the store.

With life there are supposed to be things that you enjoy, things that take your mind off of things that have gone wrong. It seems like all of my “enjoyable” activities focus on pain and personal humiliation. I feel sometimes like that is all that keeps me breathing. I think it is because those are the only situations where I can pull a semblance of normality (by normality I mean emotion) out of myself. It’s in those moments that I’m not the emotionless monster, but just another self-centered human being who is drowning in their own pain, their own downfall.

My other habits…are unspeakable. My habits, and mine alone. Even this supposed “anonymity” can’t drag it out of me. I tell you only what I feel you should know, while everything else…. We all have our secrets, the things we lock into our souls to keep. I’ll always have mine.

Too tired to care.

You’d think being a teenager I’d be able to feel quite well after 7-8 hours of sleep. Not the case. I’ve been paying more attention to my sleep schedule in a futile attempt to figure out what’s wrong with me, and to perhaps figure out what the minimum amount of sleep I can go with is.  The whole thing has been rather sickening; now I realize that there may be something wrong. Whatever it is it can’t be normal.

I go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In correlation with this, I take naps on those days. I’m getting about 7 or 8 hours of sleep those nights, yet I feel exhausted. And that’s not the bad part, the bad part is that even on the days where I sleep in, I wake up and walk around like the living dead. How much sleep am I getting at those times? 12 HOURS, USUALLY MORE . The only reason I get out of bed is because I either have to do homework or I have some strange urge to go outside (and unfortunately I can only go outside during the day…). If I could I would sleep until 4 or 5 in the afternoon. It’s getting to the point where my sleep is interrupting my life. My parents talk about getting up and going somewhere at 6:00 am or 7:00 and I won’t even consider it because I know that halfway through the day I’ll stop functioning. What’s sad is that I don’t think anyone gets it; they think I’m just a teenager and I want to sleep in. I’d give anything to wake up and feel like I actually slept…. It just won’t stop, and it seems to perpetually worsen.

At night I’m the most tired, but it’s the only quiet time I have to myself, so I refuse to sleep anymore than I already am. I’m not even going to bed late. The latest I stay up is 3:00, but generally I’m in bed by 1:00, which means that I’m asleep just as much as I’m awake, sometimes more. It’s pathetic…I’m like this battery that never gets fully charged.

And what’s funny, is that I’ve come to realize that the only reason I do ever get to sleep is because I wear myself out to the point of collapse. I pace (on average) 5-6 hours a night until my legs start to cramp and I have to lie down and sleep because I can’t stand up anymore without pain. Those nights I don’t pace? No sleep. It takes hours to relax and get my mind to stop racing.

I look at myself sometimes and wonder why I continue to put up with this, especially after all this fucking time. 4 years of this shit. Haha, and guess what? It’s never going to end.

Further down the rabbit hole….

I can’t seem to get a handle on my thoughts lately. I’m going slightly mad at this point I think. I knew a long time ago that it would come to this, but now that it’s happening I’m not fighting it like I said I would…. The only conclusion I can draw is that on some dark, hateful level, I pursued this, I wanted this….

How do you know when the voice that’s talking is really your own? How do you know if something you’ve been hiding for so long isn’t so hidden anymore?

Every feeling is slipping further and further away. It’s actually to the point where a smile or a laugh holds no meaning to me, and instead of being a “feeling” it’s more of a learned reaction. I smile because if I don’t…someone might find out. If I don’t laugh, someone will suspect something is wrong. Maybe it’s a form of self-preservation, except this is more a preservation of percieved sanity than my actual life. I won’t die if anyone finds out. I won’t die if people find out what I think. I won’t die if I lose everything I’ve been struggling for. But my life will be just that much harder, just that much more unliveable.

I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. Life has always just been a stupid game. Most of the time it isn’t worth playing. In the end everyone loses and dies anyway…haha.

My secret?
I like to feign sanity
I always tell lies
Punish me if you please,
Nothing of you matters
I keep my secrets in my mind’s eye.

When thoughts take you adrift…you follow them.

The jumbled thoughts, precisely the way they came out of my brain:

I keep thinking that I’ve used all of the energy that I had, that my will has dwindled down to the dregs, leaving me weak and vulnerable. But occasionally I get a glimpse of it. I suppose it is a reminder to myself that I’ve still have something left in me. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter. These days I just want something to hold onto, even if it is only temporary.

Everything seems to leave me far behind; I choke on dust, trying desperately to get some sort of emotion out of me, even if the best I can get is mild discomfort. Anything. I wonder sometimes if other people have to fake as much as I do, but I know that were that true there would be a lot more intelligent people in the world, resourceful people. As of now I see few. I see nothing in myself, and in others I see even less.

I was shoveling snow off of a friend’s roof today, and I wondered briefly, would I die if I fell? And then I have to calm my nerves for a moment and remember that it’s only a one story house, and there is far too much snow down below to break my fall, so severe damage is not likely. I’ll just end up in a bed for a week, my back worse off than it is already.

The neighbors curiously came out of their houses, one by one. Each making some sort of excuse to stare and gawk at two people shoveling snow off of a house that wasn’t theirs. The couple across the way even let there dog out, shouting at it as reason to come closer to the yard and have a look. I could see them standing there in the trees, the dog directly ahead of them, not going anywhere. That’s when I realized that it was all a ploy. Apparently retired couples don’t have much to do in that neighborhood.

I bend down, shoving snow that’s above my knees, with as much force as I can, watching it tumble off the edge of the roof to plop almost silently on the packed snow below. Ants. That’s exactly what they are like. Human beings are like ants. Ants build little homes, they work, they even make a public dump to put waste into. And when the ants get old, they are forced into the dump site to shovel around other ants’ shit and all of the other waste materials. When the old ants die, they are left there. Corpses are forgotten, just like people. You see, like human beings, ants don’t have much of a conscience. Out of sight, out of mind. People care about some things, like murder and other mundane, “unfortunate” occurrences. But truthfully human beings have no real idea as to the magnitude of their own flaws, how deep this “evil” thing goes. They look away in the movie when they see something they don’t like, just like they do in life. Everything they do is against the word they preach. But ants I have to say, are higher up in the “righteous” chain. They, at least, have no conception of “good” or “evil”, they instead are mindless drones. People, on the other hand, they know what they do, and they still have the gall to believe that they are better than everything else. At least I’ve accepted that I am not a good creature. I know it, and even embrace it.

It’s these thoughts that cross my mind as I mechanically heave snow over the roof’s edge. I have to keep reminding myself that I am alive, that I breathe. If I forget…well…maybe I’ll stop breathing.

I’ve always secretly believed that physical labor reveals more of the soul than any philosophical writings. That even though I should be weak—seeing as how I sit at a computer all day, doing nothing, or staring blankly at some videogame—it’s really my soul, my spirit if you will, whatever it is that my personality is, determines just how far I can be pushed. And interestingly, it’s proved to be somewhat correct. How far you go has absolutely nothing to do with your body and/or how “fit” you are, but instead, everything to do with your will. Perhaps even your anger. I am not a product of the American Golden Age of Fitness, I am a product of being incredibly pissed off. It’s like in The Matrix, when Morphius explains to Neo that power in the Matrix does not come from physical strength but from what you have inside. I never really believed that before, it seemed so opposed to what we’ve all been told, but now I see that part of that…it is…reality. What does this have to do with anything? Each time I do something where I’m going too far, pushing harder than my body is willing, it all ceases suddenly, something else taking over. It’s a power like nothing I’ve ever tasted. Only a few times have I felt it, in certain situations when I’ve gone so far that my body has nothing to say to me but “stop”. But each time I exert myself, even slightly, I can feel it there…at the back of my mind. It’s as though it lies in wait. Hoping that someday it will be set free, instead of being used as a tool in my pathetic little existence. Adrenaline? No…. It lasts as long as I will it to. It is something else entirely.

I want it. I desire it. It’s one of the few feelings I have left, and it is one that might keep me alive. It’s almost like a person. I crave it. It’s salvation amongst a sea of suffering. And all I want is it to end mine. It’s that hope I don’t have, the question I can’t answer. It’s everything the moment I have it, then nothing when I don’t. Figment? I don’t know anymore.

The more my days go on the more I realize that I know nothing, and that even emotion on any level, will never be enough to mend that damage that has already been done. The numbness will probably never stop completely; even as I write this I can’t get myself to care. I write, so what? It is to fill the time, not so much to bear my soul. No feelings of anything will pull me from the nothingness.

Do you know what it is to feel nothing? To wake in the night and claw at the sheets, because even your worst nightmare can’t produce even the tiniest bit of emotion? You know that you’re supposed to feel it, yet nothing is there…it all ran away from you. Abandonment. Just like all of those friends you used to have. Gone away, never to come back except the rare sighting here or there. Why do you feel this fit of rage upon waking? You’re angry that you aren’t angry. Angry that you are such a mechanical thing. And in the worst of times…even anger flees. Then there is truly numbness. Nothing.

And you can’t run away. Can’t be the coward that emotions tend to be. You have to face the world with your blank, soulless eyes. You have to make anger appear, FORCE it into submission. Force it to obey you. The tears of hopelessness fall from your eyes? No, not for you. You don’t get tears, you don’t get sorrow, only that hollowness. You can’t even cry for what the world’s done to you, only look upon it with the empty ever-staring eyes. Feeling…nothing.