Purpose

Pathetic a music video?. That's how my mind copes, how it tries to make sense of things—by turning my reality into something cinematic, something distant enough to feel poetic rather than tragic. In my head, I'm the main character of a beautifully shot yet deeply melancholic film, an individual who walks through empty streets while the world blurs around him. A sad story. A petty one, even. One where the protagonist clings to his own suffering as if it defines him, as if without it, he'd be nothing at all.

And yet, even as I recognize the foolishness of it, I can't stop myself from slipping into that mindset. I regret everything I've done, every choice I've made, every moment where I let things spiral out of my control. But regret doesn't bring change. It just lingers, weighing on me like a chain I've learned to carry so well that I almost forget what it feels like to be free. I can't even express emotions properly. That's the worst part. The frustration isn't just in what I've done but in how I can't even outwardly react to my own failures in a way that feels... real. But when I do express something, it's never in moderation.

When I cry, I cry like a baby—messy, uncontrollable, pathetic. The kind of crying that makes your whole body shake, that leaves you gasping for air.

When I tell the truth, I tell it like a child—blunt, raw, unfiltered. No sugarcoating. No holding back. Just pure, ugly honesty.

When I get angry, I don't just get irritated—I snap. My voice raises. My hands shake. I say things I don't mean, or maybe I do mean them, and that's what scares me the most

A sociopath, selfish. I really don't care about other people's feelings, only my own atlest from what i have observed about myself. Or maybe I just never learned how to care in a way that feels real. I think about that a lot. Whether i was just born this way, or if something happened along the way that made me like this. I don't know. just a person who has grown so detached from the feelings of others that he only sees his own pain. I don't know what I am. I don't even know what I want. What kind of life do I want to lead? I ask myself that question over and over again, but no answer ever comes. It's like I'm trapped in this endless state of exhaustion, one that no amount of rest can ever cure.

No matter how much I sleep, I'm always tired.

No matter how much I rest, I never feel better.

No matter how much I try to distract myself, the thoughts always come back.

And then there's the stupid part of me that wishes time travel was real.

Because if I could go back—if I could rewind everything—I would fix it all. I'd fix myself. I'd go back to every moment where I messed up and do things differently. I'd stop myself from saying the wrong thing, from making the wrong choice, from becoming the person I am now. I'd redo my entire life if I could, shaping myself into someone better. Someone stronger. Someone people actually want to be around.

But that's not how life works.

I hope for things that can never be.

I hope for time travel, so I can go back and fix everything—so I can fix myself.

I hope for an alternate version of me, one who made all the right choices, one who isn't burdened by self-doubt and regret.

I hope that my life is just fiction, because if I were nothing more than a character in a story, then maybe—just maybe—the pain I feel wouldn't matter. Maybe it would be easier to accept my suffering if I knew that none of it was real.

But the pain is real. The confusion is real. And the worst part is not knowing if anyone truly cares.

My birthday is coming up. A day that's supposed to mean something, a celebration of life. But I have no one to celebrate it with. And even if I did, would it make a difference? Even if someone stood in front of me, smiling, offering me their well wishes, what would I do? How would I even begin to show gratitude when I can barely feel the warmth of kindness before it slips through my fingers like sand? How do you say "thank you" when your brain doesn't know how to process gratitude? How do you smile and mean it when half the time you're not even sure if your emotions are real?

How do you let people in when you're not sure if you want them to see the real you?

I've become someone who struggles to connect, someone who questions every relationship, every interaction, every moment of kindness. Do people like me? Do they tolerate me? Do they secretly wish I wasn't here? Am I wanted? Or am I just... there? Floating through life without ever really belonging anywhere.

When someone gives me a compliment though feels nice, I don't believe it.

When someone is nice to me, I assume they're just being polite.

When someone says they care, I wonder if they're lying.

It's ironic, isn't it? I want to be wanted, but at the same time, I fear what that would mean. If I were truly wanted, then that means I matter. And if I matter, then the pain I feel isn't just mine to bear—it becomes something that affects others too. And I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of responsibility.

So I tell myself that it's better to be unwanted.

Better to be unnecessary, so when I'm gone, I can at least have a clear understanding of whether my presence in this world ever truly meant something. If no one cares, then I don't have to feel guilty for existing. But if someone does... then what? What if someone actually appreciates me for living?

Would that be enough to make me stay?

Would that be enough to silence the thoughts that haunt me every night?

Or would I still be here, questioning, doubting, waiting for some grand revelation that will never come?

I don't know, never will unless some miracles happens in mylife changing my perception towards this world and the people that live one it.

But for now, all i could do is keep walking through the fog, pretending that I have a destination, pretending that somewhere along the way, I'll find the answers I'm looking for.

Even if I never do.