I hate myself the most at 3-AM. It is the closest intertwining time of the day for my nocturnal self and the real world. It's the time I am most aware of where I am, of where my demons are. It's the time the hand of the pessimist gently caresses my hair. The pain lingering far longer than daylight. And I succumb to it. Fighting it always seems impossible. So I give in, every time. And I start to wonder why I am the same anxious person I was yesterday.
I hate this part of me the most. Every day, I get worse. Like the walls get darker and harder to climb. I start to care less and less about the skyscrapers around, the world, and its human disease. I move on from people quicker than I finish a good book. They drain me. Sometimes, even suffocate. Like the atoms in my body are revolted by the the idea of being in their presence to only be a mundane. Indeed, it's a disgusting way to be. I do want someone to understand. But I don't possess the energy to make them do. It's a feeling of contradiction I myself refuse to admit I have. But I feel them, anyway.
I hate this feeling the most. I feel. But not the ones I want to feel. Stuck in a limbo of nothingness, I become more exhausted each day. Empty, but feeling. Not morose, but sad. Cynical, but hopeful. Stays, but lost. It's just a combination of emotions that you almost feel numb. Like staring in blank space. I know, it's confusing. I think about it a lot. I think too much about it more than my daily dosage of thinking. It hurts my head, sometimes. But I never seem to come up with a plan on how to fix it, still.
(illustration by polly nor)
