I had this beautiful article written on "how to be happy," with such a cliche 'love yourself!' motto wrapped all around it, to be served to you all as some miracle product that should save you from all worries.

I don't know what I was thinking.

I can't find it inside of me to release that well-written, sappy piece when none of it is how I feel.

I'm not sure what I feel right now.

Maybe you can relate.

I think there comes a point in everyone's life where it seems the happiness has just been sucked out of them. You search for measures to make you feel again; kissing boys, the sensation of vodka slipping down your esophagus, it burns, but you feel. You smoke to think that maybe you'll find this peace of mind that everyone talks about, but it doesn't come. Desperate times call for desperate measures. You race the cars on the highway, with this thought of, "who would care if I lose control?"

You feel as though your mind is this empty hole, collecting with dust from the memories that make you feel like you were once alive. You reminisce, you smile, you lay down, and nothing comes out, except the heat radiating off of your face from the internal anger that you can't even cry anymore.

I'm not sure what this feeling is; is it sadness? depression? is it just the blues from thinking too much?

I'm not sure if this is something anyone else can feel.

Am I crazy?

People ask me why I don't eat anymore.

"Why haven't you been running?"

"When's the last time you showered?"

You lose all care in yourself, because it feels as though your soul has lost the passion in everything.

You're told to see a doctor, and the medication she prescribes gets caught in your throat because your body is so tense with...

with what?

I don't know.

Every few months you feel as though, maybe, your body can take a breath of fresh air. It's not stagnant, it's cleansing, and you get this spark of who you used to know. You picture yourself laughing, again. Eating foods and tasting them, God, I miss how sweet an iced slice of cake once tasted.

It's almost like life teases you. "Here's something good, but don't worry, this, too, shall be ripped away, right before your eyes". It's a constant cycle. You're spinning on this merry-go-round, and you want to get off, but every time the ride slows down, it just isn't enough for you to get off.

Does this make sense?

They say that writers can be amongst the saddest of people because they feel everything so deeply. I scribble all night long about the times when I would laugh and feel my heart sing, and when boys were people I loved, and not people I used.

This isn't helping.

I began enjoying the feeling of hunger. The pang made me feel the pain, and I thought back to the days when I was twelve and would stare in the mirror, hating myself, and I was convinced that this feeling was my fat being eaten away.

Now, I think it's one of the only feelings I have left.

No, I don't take a knife to my arms, and I don't contemplate whipping out a weapon on myself. It's internal destruction.

Is this what happens when a good heart is stepped on for too long?

Is this how the rest of the world thinks?

Maybe this is why the world is such an evil place.

You're a good person, but no matter how much you pull back, they suck you in, and turn you into the rest.

Numb.