For you, life is pointless. You walk around day in and day out, going through the motions, but feeling nothing. You lay in bed at night wondering exactly what the point of living is. You hope for better days, but acknowledge the fact that these days will probably not come, so you put on your game face and try to deal with it.
It annoys you to no end that you always feel like there is someone inside of you waiting to come out, but you donít know who that person is. Donít know how to get to them, to tell them to come out. You wish you could be this person, and sometimes you think you are, but that never changes the fact that you are not. You sadly marvel at the fact that no one around you seems to notice that anything is wrong. They all pretend that everything is fine and nothing is unusual or out of place. They are good actors. They are as fucked up as you are, and they know it as well, but no one likes to show it.
You are happy sometimes. You pass through periods; days, weeks, months, or if youíre lucky, maybe even years, when you are happy. When you think things are looking up and finally changing, that your life is making a turn for the better. But those times donít come around often enough. You do not have enough love and happiness in your life to make the anger and badness not count.
You are a prisoner of your mind, you ride a rollercoaster of thoughts and then you throw up because you canít deal with all the emotions that theyíve made you experience. Then you get off and run from one end of a building to another, wanting to jump but knowing that it will do you no good. You play hopscotch in your mind, you jump back and forth thinking about the person you are now and the person you would like to be, and in the end you realize that this is useless; you could never be the person you wanted to be, because if you could, you would already be that person.
You spend meaningless time with others and you wonder how people can be so damn happy all the time and seem to enjoy life so much. It tires you. Sometimes, you somehow manage to put on a happy front, but other times, people ask you what is wrong, and you have no idea what to tell them. Not simply because they will think you are fucked up, but simply because you really are fucked up. You donít know what is wrong. You know that there must be something wrong; itís just too bad you havenít been able to put your finger on it. Yet. So you keep it inside. You let your confusion boil into anger, and usually you keep it bottled up quite nicely, but sometimes, it inevitably bubbles over. And when it does, people are surprised that such a nice person like yourself is capable of releasing such anger. And to that, you can only scornfully smile, only because you donít know what else there is to do.