I am dead inside. Not in the way of a cry-on-the-street, my-life-isn’t-worth-living kind, but in a more literal form. It’s not that I don’t want to feel the reaction of a friendly smile or the internal heat from a loved ones embrace. It’s that I can’t feel those things. Maybe I never could, but it’s more apparent now than ever, in this rotten hole I’m living in where nothing and no one can pull me out.
The worst part about mental demise? Physical perseverance.
work in progress