Hey Aphony, been a while huh? Everything is just.... Ugh... it's a pain to even think about it, because in reality its just a tiny speck compared to the whole universe we are in. Like, I don't even know what's bothering me anymore. There is this nagging feeling that's just itching, crawling beneath my skin and leaving a freaking gaping hole in my chest. Inside, sadness seem to just weep there, making it heavy.

Days like this, I just want to stay in bed and do nothing at all and let the feeling pass. I don't know how and why, but I just assume that the feeling will come and go like the waves of an ocean across the sandy beach. The problem is, it takes time, and there doesn't seem to be a remedy of it. The things I used to love before, writing, drawing reading, it doesn't seem so appealing to me anymore. I do try though, but it doesn't seem to appease this feeling inside of me.

Now that I think about it, I am no different than a clock to be honest. Day in day out, the clock ticks and tocks. Day in and day out, I go about adjusting with situations and letting the audience see what they want to see. Anxiety, she is my enemy. She would hit me blow after blow, but I always show my smile. It's similar to a clock being thrown here and there several times.

However, there will be one point in time where the clock breaks to a millions of pieces. That's when I have a mental breakdown. Where the pressure and stress build up inside of me so much that I burst. Then I cry, I cry like there is no tomorrow and I weep until my eyes are sore, my cheeks sticky with tears and my nose running with snot. Like time being rewound, I feel like I am shrunk to a small child, helpless, vulnerable, weak.

However, if someone is willing it, the clock pieces, the gears, the tiny widgets here and there, someone could put it back together again and the clock would start running again. There would be some sort of faulty movement here and there, but its unnoticeable and negligible.

For me, its myself who put the pieces back together again, and like the clock, there are little faulty movements here and there, but no one notices. Eventually, the faults, the flaws are overlooked or most likely, perfected in such a way that it doesn't draw attention. It's just so easy to do it that it's hilarious.

The problem is, I broke so many times I lost count and each time, I die a little more inside. Its getting harder and harder to conceal the fact that everything is not fine. Screw it, ever since I started hearing voices of a thousand strangers and seen the world in which the others could not see, I've never been fine and pills are not going to help me. Sure, they take away the voices for a bit, but its still there, and I still see things which are downright illogical.

The pills, it will not solve the root of this problem, this huge fault of mine. I know that I shouldn't be ashamed, but I have so many flaws and with this diagnosis of mine added to the list, my self-confidence sort of plummeted even lower than it already was. It's like getting a huge F on a test and I live in a society which think negatively of people who suffer the same illness as me.

Oh I know the names they will call me. They will call my psycho, they will call me crazy, they will call me all sorts of things and I am afraid that I will consider them as true. Where had things gone so bad? Ever since I was a child? Because that's where I couldn't distinguish between reality and fiction. No, perhaps that time it was mild, it was bearable at least.

No, what am I saying. I freaking cut myself when I was eleven and all because the voices told me to. Know how that ended up? It quickly escalated to cutting everyday whenever the pain inside my chest swell up to a suffocating level. For three years I cut myself, at the age of eleven, all because I couldn't fit in.

Screw society and its judgemental gazes. Screw it all, screw the fact that I am helpless in that scenario in anyway.

Ah... I wanna cry now. It's been long since I cut myself, and I won't do it again. I won't succumb to that, I refuse. However, the pain, its so unbearable that I don't know what to do. It feels like I am curled up in a corner, with fire blazing all around me. I can't move away, I can't extinguish it, it burns, it freaking burns.

It's silly, yet for most of my life I feel like I never fit in. I never found something that was my true calling. I feel like a spare gear in a clock, useless, not worth it, only needed when it proves it worth only to be thrown away later. What is the point of my own existence? I don't know, and I want to believe that I am here for a reason but in reality, I just can't, not now at least.

Getting better? Not a bit. Not unless the find a permanent cure for this mental illness of mine, not until I find my worth of existence, I will never feel better. Oh, I will feel alright in some days, but like a clock, those happiness won't last. It's just one tick away from exploding, breaking, stopping.