The thought about death crosses my mind at least once a week. No, not suicide. I would never be willing to, nor would I be strong enough, to do such a thing. No, I think about just fading away from the existence you’ve grown to know as yourself. The ache in your bones you feel in the morning. The feel of somebody’s lovely touch against yours. The way your heart leaps, trying to escape your throat whenever something emotional happens. All that, gone.

Maybe it’s not so much death as existing. These thoughts tend to come whenever I’m alone. I’m terrified of being alone. And I don’t mean just alone physically. If you’ve grown up with a family that expects you to be more of a profit than a person, and with a handful of friends you’re certain would be better without you, these thoughts just come into fruition.

I used to think of myself as strong. Somebody to take on the world, his troubles. To become something else, something better. Something happier, filled with life. You know, like the people in the college frats you might see on campus, seemingly without a care in a world. Or always smiling, like them people in those stock photographs in those frames. But over the years, I’ve just grown tired. I’ve grown tired of people, of reading, of playing video games, and so on. But most important, I’ve grown tired of myself.

What keeps me going? It was a tall tale, in which I thought I could be the hero of my story. I let go of that ideal, and began believing I was existing for others. To see them happy, which would make me feel as such in return. But even that went away, and I find myself growing jealous and despairing over not having the same joy they have. So what keeps me trying for so long now? And my answer is. I really do not know.