on the lost ones

they tell me i should write. that it would help. so i sit and stare at the empty page - well, screen - and wait for the words to come. i know i'm not trying anymore. that i'm just floating through. getting by.

i quit my job.

it's my own fault, really. no one else to blame. 

but if i think i can be happy is that hope or ignorance?

i watch the people go by. people doing things. needing other people. living day by day. i watch. i don't listen anymore.

because every time i try there's another reason why it wont work. i'm sick of the excuses.

i want to be strong. i want to be the woman i idolize. but she's not even real. just ideas on a page...

pretending that none of it matters makes the pain swell and blister. but i pretend anyway. pretend that i'm okay. that i'll be okay. i pretend for them. i pretend for me. maybe one day i'll believe it.

i've managed to make myself physically ill. stopped causing external damage only to resume again from the inside. i sit and wait for the phone to ring, but when it does, i dont want to answer. its always better not to know. create the fantasy. live the illusion. everything else is crap.

i'll never be okay with this. it sounds ridiculous when i say it out loud. one of me is dead. and no one will let me grieve for the fallen. the other wanders lost, like a drone. mindless, senseless, unfeeling, uncaring. 

i wish i could let it all go and just breathe. but none of it makes sense. maybe my brain just isnt wired like that. i do it to myself. i don't know why. people try to help and i push them back. my instinct is to resist. why can't i evolve?

if i could sign away my body to another conscious, i would do it in a heartbeat.