‌‌ ‌Quietude

"I was busy."

‌ ‌Ah Lord, deliver me from these people.

‌ ‌I hate that I have to deal with people. I wish I could cut them all off and never look back.

‌ ‌But I feel like I've grown tired of life far too soon, and I haven't even laid eyes on so much of the beauty this world still holds.

‌ ‌‌People have so much inside their heads that never gets said out loud, words that never even reach the air.

‌ ‌My silence about myself isn't emptiness, it's just that some things lose their truth the moment you try to say them.

‌ ‌‌I'm done explaining that my silence isn't coldness. It's just that I feel too much to speak.

‌ ‌I've always loved sleeping, but honestly, I think sleep hates me? Whatever, it's fine.

‌ ‌Exhaustion has reached an indescribable level.

‌ ‌The past of every person is a museum of the life they've had. In my case, it's been filled with nothing but misery and bad luck, and honestly, maybe it still is.

‌ ‌‌If I could go back to the past, I'd just end it all right there.

‌ Life is just repeating itself over and over. Part of me thinks jumping off a roof would be the answer.

‌ ‌I don't know if this is normal, but I can't even talk to someone without worrying about making them uncomfortable, and this whole thing is just bullshit at this point.

‌ ‌‌I hate how I have to be careful not to upset someone when I'm talking to them.

‌ ‌Yeah, right. I hate loud noises, and yet again I listen to music at an impossibly loud volume. We exist.

‌ People, there's a group of them who know nothing. They can speak without knowing, so their words shouldn't be valued, right?

You can call me Aice.