Is this me? The person in the mirror smiling into my own eyes. The first to grasp the meaning of the words that fall from my mouth—or the one who, not knowing what to do, punches walls and believes that the slightest physical pain will soothe the ache in their soul… I don’t know this person.
I want to be the child I’ve forgotten. I don’t want to become someone else. I truly hate it. I spew mouthfuls of curses. I seize every chance to inflict pain on myself. I bite my lips to keep from unleashing what’s inside me. I resign myself to the fact that I can’t bring myself to say “fuck off.” I don’t deserve to be this person.
My feet tremble with rage. I repeat to myself that no one must recognize who I really am. I want to be alone. I miss myself. I don’t want to offer my face to just anyone—yet they look at me and whisper only “hi.” Even if my entire body stood perfectly still, I couldn’t hide the truths in my eyes.
I want to ask questions. I don’t even know why. I keep repeating myself. I’m so angry at myself. Living is the source of all pain. I’d do anything to escape this. Maybe only in eternal sleep will I find peace.
With every letter, pieces of my soul vanish. I’m misunderstood—even by myself. I want to do nothing, but even that feels impossible. I can’t close my eyes for more than a few minutes. I can’t believe that the life replaying before my eyes like a film reel is mine.
I don’t want to keep running. I don’t want to humiliate myself any further. I can’t escape—nothing can be as far from me as myself. I want to leave it all behind, but I don’t even have the courage. I lie to myself, saying I love solitude, but I never want to return to that hell again.
Among people, I keep smiling. I try to tell them about my pain. For a moment, I feel relief, but it only climbs higher. Please, just leave me be. I want to leap from the glass skyscraper that haunts my dreams. I can’t bear the agony of living any longer.
I don’t want to stop. I know if I do, I’ll start thinking. So long as I keep moving, I keep convincing myself. I tell myself over and over that my life isn’t worthless, yet here I am, feeling like a worm just for writing this. Again and again, I want to shout “fuck off”—to everything… to the ceaseless motion around me… to this outward shell I wear.
I want to be free. From all of you. From myself. I repeat my own words in an effort to find strength, but nothing ever changes. I remain stuck at this same crossroads. I want to break my hand—despite all the measures I take to hide the bruises on my joints…
And I laugh…
soli 
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