Routine of a Hopeless Person

Each day begins with the struggle to lift myself from the bed, weighed down by a burden that feels like a backpack stuffed with heavy books and scattered colored pencils—disorganized, chaotic, and reflective of my inner turmoil.

In the shower, I seek to cleanse my past with the water, but instead, I feel as though I'm drowning in my own thoughts. Breathing becomes a battle, and I'm suffocating under the weight of my own melancholy.

Melancholy is my daily breakfast. It's far from pleasant, but I consume it out of habit. Each bite stings my throat and pierces my heart, as society's harsh judgments strike like thorns, inflicting pain with every criticism.

I once found joy in going out and socializing, but now I've retreated into the solitude of my home, where I cling to a fragile sense of safety. I clean my house, though I can't seem to clear the mess within myself.

Hours are spent lost in thought, overwhelmed by endless "what ifs." Questions like "Am I worthy?" haunt me, answered only by tears—the ocean of my sorrow. These tears flow relentlessly, cascading like a waterfall, each drop a reminder of the pain I must endure.

As night falls, I indulge in anxiety, making it a habitual companion. My eyes scan the room, ideas surge, and I overthink until exhaustion overtakes me.

By 3 a.m., I may finally drift into a semblance of sleep. You might think it's an escape from reality's nightmares, but both reality and dreams are equally haunting to me.

And so, I awaken—or did I even sleep? The cycle begins once more.