Somewhere in the world, a girl sits on her bed. A lamp by her side radiates buttery light, illuminating the journal she holds in her lap. The air is silent but for the scratching of her pen.
Dear Diary, she writes. Without any pain, I am empty. Completely, and irrevocably hollow.
It's never dawned on me until now, why I always relish the stings and aches in my chest. Why I always want to trigger the tears. Listen to sad songs. Read tragic books.
Why — when I am trying to hard to be strong — why do I search for ways that tear me apart? Because what am I, without grief?
Nothing. There is nothing inside of me without sadness. I think that, maybe, I've been trapped in darkness for so long that I don't recognize anything else.
I've been running on my pain like it's adrenaline, living with it for so long that it's become a part of me. And, when it's gone ... I feel numb.
I physically feel as though a large part of my body is missing. There's nothing worse in this world than feeling so empty it's like I'm already dead.
Happiness ... joy ... delight ... where did it all go? For some reason, they just don't exist anymore, at least for me.
Sick and twisted, isn't it? How I actually need the pain. Because it's the only thing that reminds me I'm alive. The only thing that reminds me my heart is still beating.
At the same time, though, I wish the pain would leave — I want to feel empty. I want to feel dead, because perhaps ... perhaps if I didn't feel anything, I would have the strength to end it.
End it all.
Like I said: so sick. So twisted. I don't know how anyone can stand it — can stand living in this wretched excuse for a world.
The words in front of the girl blur and shift. It hurts so much, she thinks. So much. Almost too much.
She signs off with her name, not caring about the drops of moisture that smudge the ink. Then the girl closes away what most would call a peek into a broken heart.