/lit/ - Literature

Someone told me once that people feel lonelier when there are no stars out, which is odd because I’ve always felt lonely even with stars above us. I smoked a cigarette on the back steps, looking at everything around me. The trees, the grass, the pavement, everything seems to be some sort of gray—a washed out image of what it once was. The evening was nice, I suppose. Slightly cold, but not to the point of being unbearable. This was the world I knew, this was what I called home. Here is a place where the only solace comes in a bottle or a twisted up sandwich bag.
Stepping back inside, I filled a glass with water and drank. After a smoke I am eager to wet my throat in some way. Something was rougher than usual, and of course I didn’t know how to handle it. This is normal. This is my life.

Six hours later it was morning. Coffee kept me up in those days, along with the nicotine fix. I couldn’t really understand my affliction, but still I kept moving through the days as though there were no issues. Yes, I had dark circles under my eyes and I wasn’t as attentive as before; but I made due. Life was nothing pleasurable at this point, and I no longer feared waking up in the morning because there was no sleep to wake up from.
College, in all its grandeur had not made a good place for my psyche. I have always feared for my mental health, and I knew about depression. I knew I had it. What I didn’t know was that I had sunk so far into apathy that I really couldn’t feel its effects anymore. I just existed, not really living. And although it was a solitary way to live, with no cares about people, things, or anything else I preferred it to an emotion filled quagmire of day to day troubles. I grabbed my mug, drank, and contemplated another cigarette. If I could say it would be a long day, I would. But when there is no sleep to separate the days, everything seemed long.