The Tunnel

Am I unfit for society? Am I really useful to anyone? Do I actually serve any purpose? Do the people I consider my friends feel the same, or have I been alone all this time? Have I been living under a false pretense of mutual trust? Do I truly deserve to speak with anyone? Opening up leads to more trouble, more pain, more misery— so why should I allow myself to speak? Why do things always fall apart? No matter how hard I try, I always end up failing. Even when I don’t fail, I still feel as though I haven’t accomplished anything worth noting. I still feel as though I have wasted hundreds of hours on something I can’t even enjoy or find value in. I see those around me moving forward. I admire their hard work, their perseverance, their strengths and weaknesses. I admire them for who they are. And yet I lack the ability to show that same admiration for myself. Is it alright for me to keep living like this? Is it alright for me to keep living at all? Why did I waste so much time developing skills that no one will ever need? Why is it that no matter how hard I try, no one will ever need me? There is no reason for me to continue. There is no reason for my existence. I am but a waste of space. Yet—I am still living. Stopping has proven itself impossible, so why have I been brought into this world? Why shouldn’t I simply give up? Why can’t I stop? Why can’t I relax? Why can’t I cease? Haven’t I done enough already? What even is enough—for me, for you, for anyone? When will it stop? When will I satisfy the melancholy that resides within? When will I be able to feel once more, the joy of one's youth which was so hastily robbed from me? Why am I writing any of this? Why do I write in general? Why do I do anything? Why do people do anything? What is the purpose of doing? Doing things simply puts strain on oneself, and at the end of it all what do you gain? What is satisfaction in oneself? What does it mean to be loved?

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