I have been trapped in a wretched situation my entire life which, being only 19 years, is not yet long. Last year was to be the last year; the time which I had been waiting and preparing for had come. No, I do not mean suicide; I merely mean to refer to a course of events that would permit me to deliver myself into respite, the nature of which I shall not go into for the sake of brevity. Unfortunately, when the time did come, I was frustrated once more and nothing eventuated. Now I am still trapped and I fear I may remain to be trapped for some considerable time.
I had felt myself drifting away, I had long since been aware of the increasing gap, not only between me and society, but also between me and those directly around me.
I did hope to stagnate this process, even to reverse it.
But there will be no transfiguration.
I know this now as I sink further into my own depths, haplessly observing the faint and ever diminishing vestiges of my relevance glimmering quietly in the past.
Sometimes, when I slip beyond the realm of conscious oblivion, I rouse suddenly in the midst of nervous commotion, a silent dread roaring around me, a grimacing blackness.
These visitations of terror are brief and quickly dispelled by my desolation, though they would be sooner resolved by affection.
No, my loneliness is so intense as to be almost tangible; I want to be loved, I can not describe what it is to be regarded with such indifference, to be so isolated. I can't bear it any longer. Is there nothing in me that can be loved? Perhaps I am such an unattractive wretch in general that my better qualities are of little significance. Perhaps I'm a bad person.
No, I can not imagine how anyone could ever come to love me; why do I torture myself with false hope?
Worse still is that I am not in the least bit misanthropic; I love humanity, I love people, so my exclusion is made doubly painful.
I'm a wandering hell.
Suicide? How can a dead man kill himself? Besides, if I am to will my own existence to a premature end, it will be by the inordinate amounts of alcohol with which I sabotage myself.
The destruction of the self; the last and perhaps kindest remnants of my serfdom.
I've only just woken up and already I feel the pangs of fatigue, so I'll sleep now.