nothing feels real. i don't even know if i can feel my fingers anymore - is it me typing or is it my heart? how come you're reading this, i'm so minor in this grossly large world, with so many people, just imaging the amount of it is making my head spin. i can see them all in my room, looking at me, squeezing against me, us suffocating. but my room is the size of a poorly made walk-in closet, and fitting ten people in this room is a piece of work already. i've never known who i am, but at least i knew what i wanted to be. now, i've lost that as well. i no longer crave the things i used to, the things i ought to crave. i can't bear it. this isn't a dark-nights-pure-hearts-holding-hands-falling-hopelessly-in-love type of lost, it's a where-on-earth-am-i-and-why type of lost.
and even after all this, i can't find peace. at least there's one thing i'm certain about, now: the fact that i'll never be a writer - if i'll even be anything.