my feelings are just broken bits of glass that i voraciously grab and clutch into my palms. we're nothing but addicts, streaming for that dose of endorphins our brains release, hiding it under masks of a sense of purpose, the greater good, conscience, dreams, shit like that.
what good is my existence, if  not even a small part of what i feel cannot be synthesized by that special someone and returned back to me? the promise of such in the future does not motivate me. i'm just so tired of hurting and so tired of not feeling something really pure. the letters i thought i would write, me explaining why i did it, i figured those reasons i'd put into words are just a way to convince myself to end it all. a final excuse. a pathetic last attempt to justify my act and my whole existence in front of the world. living just isn't right for me anymore.