I’m just a prisoner, one of many. I’m nothing special. Many others are in the same predicament as I: prisoners of themselves.
Depression, low self-esteem, loneliness, and so on and so forth. They’re all links of the same chain, a heavy chain I’ve worn around my neck ever since I was born and that’s been weighing me down ever since. Seldom have I been able to run, let alone endeavor to fly, yet this is nobody’s fault by mine. Or is that also my low self-esteem talking? I don’t think I will ever know.
What is the point of this blog? It has no point, truly. It’s just an yet another exercise in futility to try and feel better, somehow. You know, how they always say to keep a journal? I never kept one. I have issues with the past, I can’t even go through old photos; many people love doing so, but me, well, it makes me very uneasy. Good memories sadden me because they’re gone; bad memories sadden me because they’re bad. So a journal, a private, personal journal, is more of a nightmare than anything else. But I figured: let’s give it a try, after all I have nothing to lose. Nobody know who I am. I’m just a number. These are just words. This could disappear in an instant and even if it were archived, it would be quickly lost in the ocean of more sensible content out there.
I’m just a prisoner, one of many. I’m nothing special. But I feel like talking about it.