20s — rethinking

Plastic Life” by Lara Zankoul

Everything is perfectly clear but blurred at the same time, creating this mass of contrasting colors that I couldn’t make out of.

I ask myself, “is this it?” And the oxygen seems to get denser, suffocating my whole being: memories, senses, ways of thinking, and soul or whatever that’s left.

I broke down again without any apparent reason. For all I know, this maddening silence interrupts my thinking process. Taking my mind over and hijacks it with loneliness and confusion.

All that I do never compensate my worries. I never know the purpose of my existence, but dying. And I guess everyone does so.

I am continuously organizing this clutter of mind mess, categorizing each thing to its respectful place, but gravely, I don’t have the manual. Trying to untangle it over and over only creates a dreadful toxic cycle of waste, polluting my brains.

Every day is a drag. It’s even worse when I get off of work to spend the long night alone in a few square meters of space I called home. A place where everything feels excruciatingly exhausting.

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