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I am chilled by the redundancy of thoughts collected but not kept.
I spend my days with my head in my hands, and if I go outside, I will surely fall apart.
And I suppose I should be grateful for the chance to rest at the end of my life.
That I don't have to wear my brain down any longer than I have to.
My family believes in a God, but I can't. I have a hard time believing there is a afterlife, perhaps because I don't want to live forever. Perhaps because perishing and ceasing to exist eventually is the ultimate rest. You cherish your daylight hours, but when it comes time for a eternal night, you sleep it away. Your body needs to rest. Forever.
Sometimes I want to be a baby again. I want to forget that everyone dies eventually.
I have very few things to live for, but one thing to live for is enough. But, I fear, I will lose the love of these people.
I fear failure. And perhaps thats why death is the ultimate rest, because, in the end, failure can be forgotten. But achievements may not. And someone who lives may not have made any memorable achievements in his life.
I'm too smart to be normal, and I'm too smart to go to a great college and do something good with my life.
I've been given Asthma, allergies to everything you can imagine, a lazy eye, and a terrible reputation in my social life. But their voices aren't the ones that speak loudest.
Its my actions that speak the loudest.
Sometimes I wonder if I would remember me.
I suffer from anxiety which has plagued myself since my teens, i am awkward in social situations, begin talking to myself in public and not realising the only time i feel safe is in my own room, cant stand being looked freaks me out, when i was 16 i tried getting help from my doctor he was useless told him how i had to build myself up to go out even to put a bin out, and more of what i still feel ...