The sum of all heartaches

Inspiration left me long ago. The more I fight and try to write, the more I feel empty and void of thought. Nothing flows from me as it used to. Is it lack of emotions? Is it this numbness that seems to fill my broken empty heart a little bit more each time I try to do anything creative? I'm just tired of staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page. Sometimes it feels like I stare at it for hours, days, weeks... months, even!

Sometimes I cry... I forget to take my pills and I cry. I cry because I'm lonely or because I read or watched something really sad. Sometimes I cry because I read or watched something happy. I cry... but not because I'm helpless or sad or hurting. I cry because I don't have the strength to fight anymore. But... it's okay. I'm just tired.

I've been living in a new city for some months now. It's a big and exciting city. I never go anywhere. I don't meet new people. I'm stuck. I'm scared. I'm scared of crowded places. I am socially awkward. I never know what to say in social situations or when I do meet new people. So I just keep quiet. So quiet I feel like the people around me might think I'm a serial killer or a psycho killer. Or a serial psycho killer. Some sort of killer. Who's very quiet.

Years ago I was the life of the party. I would drink and tell stories. I would rarely shut up. I knew how to smile. I was as cool as a cucumber. Now I'm some sort of shut-in, a shade of Boo Radley. I feel like that carefree person that I was got lost along the way. I try hard to pinpoint exactly when that happened but... I fear I will never get to the bottom of it. Mostly because thinking of it, or validating what made me change so much, almost over night, is something that I don't really want to do. I don't know what happened, but I do. I just don't want to re-hash it. I suppose I could say it's the sum of all heartaches. But, in the end, it really isn't the sum of all heartaches, it's just me... tired of being who I was.

Being this reclusive being is easier. It's not as much work as being loved by all because there's really no way of being loved by all. There's always a ton of people that hate you. I know this, because I've been there and being hated... knowing that you're hated by people hurts so much more than you thought it would. Don't get me wrong... I'm not saying that people don't hate you because you're reclusive. You're just not aware of it. And people don't get the chance to see you as often so you kind of fly under their radar. They move on to hate other outgoing and popular people. You're safe! Or so you think... Sometimes a spark of who you were comes back and you make a huge and painful effort to catch a glimpse of who you were just for one glorious night! But... you fail miserably. The sum of all heartaches is always there, in the back of your mind, crippling you and preventing you from moving forward. And maybe there's this guy that you could hang with and have fun with. But the ghosts of heartaches past paralyse you. But still, when the moon is high and bright cutting through the night, and a soft breeze seems to blow as if it's caressing your cheek, you close your eyes and almost smile. You imagine an alternate you, happy and safe in that guy's arms. But when you close your eyes, the moon is gone and only darkness surrounds you. No wind, no breeze. The night is still and you're alone. No arms around you to keep you safe and warm. Just you, alone in your bed with flooded eyes. What do you do when even your imagination hurts you?

When you're sick with flu, like I've been these last couple of days, you think about all these things. You focus on everything and nothing all at the same time. You go back and forth in your mind trying to figure out what to do next because the person you are right now is not the person you imagined you'd be. The person you were isn't the person you wanted to be either! So who the fuck am I? And how the fuck to I get to be the person I always imagined I'd be?

I'm not successful. I'm not an artist. I barely make enough money to pay my bills and make rent. I'm not happy. I don't have an awesome boyfriend. I don't have many friends. I am socially awkward. I have a fear of heights and spiders. I have road rage. I'm detached. I live in a fantasy world. I hate myself. I have depression. No, not really. I'm okay. I'm just tired...