Raise me from the dead please. I've been dead for as long as I can remember. My chest hurts and I can't keep up with my fears. I forgot what I am worried about, which worries me. I haven't formed a thought in years or at least one that I believe. Years pass and things seem to have changed but the pit in my stomach stays. I wish I could tell you what's wrong, fuck I wish you could tell me what's wrong. Nothing can be this terrible. I know this fact and still, the immovable object holds me down. Even as I am writing this, my stomach hurts. The funniest thing about all of this is that in this very moment, I am still concerned with feeling stupid. Discounting my own pain as something not real when I myself am the one who experiences it. That's a warped way of seeing things, I think. I wish I could write about anything else, something about those around me or the state of the world but I can't. I'm too self-involved and can only concern myself with myself. This too kills me. I want you to feel bad for me or at least see me in a certain light. A different light than I see myself in or maybe it's all the same thing. I want this to be funny and in some ways, it probably is. In reality, there is little funny about a 20 something white guy who somehow thinks that he has real world pain when everything else would say the opposite. I can only fall so far until I am swooped up by the safety net that I have around me. This is confusing and a bit ridiculous to grasp. There is also the aspect of taking this all too seriously. It is most likely the internal pressure that feeds off the external until they become interchangeable in my own sense of self. You can only be a fraud if there is actually someone under the facade but what if the facade is who I am? That's not a facade, that's just a shallow person.
Actually, just kidding. I'm fine.