terminals

every conversation morphs into an argument so easily that i can’t remember the last time i had a real conversation with someone that meant something to me. probably with my dad. maybe he realised there wouldn’t be many more so he actually cared, but we all have limited time left. that thing in your chest isn’t beating, it’s counting down. i’m tired of trying to be right, to do right. sometimes the hollowness of existence just wears me down too much. there is no reason for me to be here but i feel compelled to try and sort through the mess i’m left with. i don’t want perfection, i just want life to work. i want to feel something, anything. i don’t want to be alone. but there are no alternatives. it’s me and four glass walls. find me.