I like writing; along with the music I listen to, it makes me regret things. It makes me sad, it makes me worry, it makes me restless, and it makes my heart sink. How is it that I am so hated? How is it that I am so heated? How is it that I am so half-hearted, so halved by knives that don't exist? I mourn the day I am away from this feeling. This discomfort convinces me that I am not empty, for how could I be empty? When do I have a heart? I have hunger? Must I watch what I eat? Must I count the leaves of trees? Must I delude myself in appreciation? Must I ignore half of the tree, make space between the leaves, or should I just leave the sounds of the falling of the leaves? Maybe perhaps watch the leaves fall as I drink this mountain of nutrients. For making them fall, it feels like the wind, a force I cannot swipe away.
I am so confused, perhaps so lost inside that I am falling apart without even noticing. The tree I live in is rotting, and the fruits that it bears I cannot eat; I see them fall and rot. How can I become a seed within the universe? When I am only a leaf, only something to see within the scene of countless uncounted lives. It's like my skin has lost what glues it to my muscles.
I know exactly how this will end.