Romeo Run

Why don't you love me? Most importantly, why do you love me? I've had no time to write for a couple of weeks. While everyone's stressors are being set alight, mine remain cool, calm and conscious. They should be on fire. They should be dancing over their graves. Why am I here? It's a question I ask myself every day but this time in a subjective sense. Why am I at college? And am I right if I say that everything leads to nothing? In the end, at least. Existential bullshit. Give me meaning and I will live for that meaning. You tell me what I am supposed to do with the life "God" granted me, and I will get on with it in honorary silence. Each miserable day before the last miserable day before. I am nineteen years old. I think about death more than I think about life. Show me the purpose. I want to be reassured that the agony of every day will be outweighed with some kind of bliss in the end. I say bliss, perhaps I just mean contentment. The prospect of burning out seems all too alluring right now. I am determined to tell you that this is not a flurry of anguish, but rather a very rational decision. I am not sitting on bloodied knees, kneeling over and crying into my glass of water. I am in a very stable frame of mind. I feel nothing. And this is the best frame of mind I could possibly be in.

"It's true I always wanted love to be hurtful."

What was true once upon a time doesn't ring true so much anymore. I wanted someone to love me so much that it tore them apart. I wanted them to be unable to eat, talk or breathe without me. Thinking back, I seem to have developed a conscience since then. Perhaps just the loving is enough. Perhaps I would lack the ability to frankly give a shit. It hurts, having a care in the world.