Perhaps if I were born under different circumstances, things would not have been this way. Life decidedly better; living pleasant; waking up a blessing rather than a half-finished curse, one with no end.
Instead it is this: a never ending string of bad decisions; drunken dialogues with a reticent self I could not claw out of misery; faded traces of a happiness I thought I knew long ago, remember knowing long ago. This is not an existential crisis anymore — I do not suffer the burdensome question of why I exist, and what I am existing for, and what it means for me to be set where I am in this lonely corner of the cosmos. This is pure and simple loathing of the knowledge that past every single stupid mistake I have committed and every single golden moment I have had the chance to experience, rare as it may be, I am still alive and still breathing and still living through days and nights of horror at what has become of me.
I am past asking for reasons why I am, only now asking to cease, fade into some kind of nonexistence that will help me realise a worth I could no longer see. I wonder why I am loved and could never find a decent reply, and I constantly live in fear of losing their love, which is the one thing that keeps me from disappearing and running away. I understand that there are questions to which I will not find the answers no matter who I ask. All the same I hope, and without fail, shortly after asking and hoping, I am let down.
I am no-one and I have no-one and I will never be anyone as far as I can tell now, so by the mercy of any gods there are out there please let it stop. God almighty, let this stop.