Midnight Every Day

Here I am
Last time I was here writing, I knew what to do. Last time I was here writing, I am bursting with ideas. Last time I was here writing, writing was enough to make me happy. Last time I was here writing, my emotions are in check. Last time I was here writing, I was a better person than I am right now.

I'd like to think that I've been through so much, but so much won't compare to the general. I'd like to think that I've felt a lot of depressing things, but it is not close to depression. Pure emptiness, deafening silence, aching consciousness, drying tears.

Every day was passing by without anybody seeing me, without anybody knowing how I am, without anybody knowing who I am. Every day was empty, every day was dark, every day was hoping something good will happen the next day, every day hoping that time would just stop, every day wishing that I was never here. Why am I here?

Purpose. I don't have that. People looked so happy with jobs to accomplish, families to provide, dreams to chase, passion to fill. I'm a rock. Without too much purpose, without too much passion, without too much dreams, only hollow.

What am I but only an empty vessel trying to float in my every day life, without any direction, nothing to steer to, just floating and trying to get by.