Dreams.

I no longer daydream that it isn't real. All I do is drift. I commit to nothing.

All my plans fall by the wayside. Dreaming, of any kind it seems, is no more. 

I cannot picture a future self not crushed by the weight of grief. Because this is surface level,

Not real, raw grief. That is the future. Now is the "before" to an unimaginable, inescapable "after" 

Because there is no "now".

Not with the distance we keep. There is only an immense mass of waiting, holding.

Holding and with-holding. 

I really don't know what to do with myself. Because movement feels so full of loss somehow.

Like a "stepping away from" that doesn't feel allowed. It is guilt ridden and lonely. 

Is this because I have always felt lonely? Because I thought (hoped?) that one day that loneliness would come to an end. That I would cease to feel "othered". 

I feel life slipping away. I struggle to care even though it fills me with despair.  

The depression soaks through me and I see no real point in fighting it- because, what for? 

There is nothing to shake off. No brightness to seek. 

I'm sinking. 

But in truth it feels the only logical way. 

I have never been this devoid of hope. 

And it scares me. 

"No one gives a shit about your sadness" 

I repeatedly think to myself these past few months. 

Why should they? 

And, I see the holes that have existed in my own compassion. The effort it takes sometimes, to care when you are lost in yourself. Your own life. Your own head. Why should this be different? 

"It's yours, and you need to figure it out for yourself"