ImmortalizedLies

Sympathy is not my strong suit in life. It never has been. I just...grew up like that. It's difficult for me to really feel for others. I have to love them. I have to truly care for them. I have to establish an emotional connection to them in order for me to sympathize. 

When I cry for myself, I am relieved. 

When I cry for someone else, I am beyond vulnerable to a point of being crushed. 

For me to experience sympathy, it's a different level of feeling. 

My tears aren't my own, in that point in time. 

This person...I secretly, deeply care for, shed tears, and seeing him express his heartache, it completely destroyed me instantly. 

I was fine, I was great, I was having a good day. I saw this, and, his tears broke down my walls in my head and I saw his tears and reflected them with mine. 

I have never handled sympathy very well, or at all. It's always been like that, and it will probably always be like that. I don't know if I truly except that aspect in life. 

I would do anything in my power to have him never cry again. 

I perceived him as the happiest man on Earth. 

When I saw the happiest man on Earth cry, his tears fell and hit and caused earthquakes. 

When he cries, I cry...

Those earthquakes still haven't ended....

Something is trying to tell me something. My fear level is unrealistically high as of late. I fail to hide it. I'm trying to pinpoint what it is.

There is this other life I can feel.

The best way I can explain it: It feels as if there is another version of "me" trying to get a message across to "me" and it's muffled.

I'm supposed to do something.
I'm supposed to achieve something.
I'm supposed to help somebody.
I'm supposed to watch out for something.
I'm supposed to be here.
I'm supposed to be there.

A silent, transparent thought is trying to get my attention. I can't afford to pay it any meaning right now.

I have to stay focused on what is ahead of me.

I have to pay my bills from February.
I have to go to work.
I have to sign up for university courses.
I have to socialize with my group of friends.
I have to help my mom with everyday life.
I have to try and visit my dad more.
I have to fix my fucked up shoulder.
I have to fix my fucked up back.

I don't know. It's been bothering me for a few months now.

I know what I would have to do in order to receive this message. It's dangerous. It's counter-productive. It would potentially sabotage everything I have worked for the past 3 years. I don't know if it's even worth it.

This message is drowning and I'm standing here camping at the crossroads thinking I'm making a difference in the world. Like, fuck.

I don't consider myself a great example of overcoming depression. In my eyes, it's as if there isn't a cure for it. It's not something that can be exiled from oneself. I still struggle with certain side effects to this very day. It's these small reminders of what was done and what scars are healed over. Scars of flesh and the scars of the mind remain.

I find myself giving life advice to those who have sought me and requested certain words of me. I could only give them what hope I obtained and what darkness and light created.

People tell me that I've grown into this person. They tell me that I'm this survivor. I don't ever reply. I don't ever take it as a compliment of any sort.

I don't consider being a survivor a proud aspect.

All I ever survived was myself. As much as that doesn't make any sense, that's the best way I can put it. I survived myself. I was my worst nightmare that seeped at my hope and my heart and my lifesource.

I won, and I lost to myself over and over again, countless times. There's nothing to be proud of. Why? Because it doesn't make any logical sense.

All I have ever done was to learn to live with it.

I'm not putting myself down. It sure sounds like it. Take it from me, I'm not a great example. I shouldn't be giving life advice.

I only tried because I care for those few people who asked and were suffering openly to me. I understand what mindset they were in.

The type of heartache to expose yourself in desperate times is a killer.

The pains in this reality are great. The mass types of suffering have so many different faces. I get it.

Survive yourself, for as long as you can. There's always another kind of hope that awaits. You just have to keep reaching, even if your tired and blind. Just keep reaching.