I am no one. I attempt to be someone I am not — I attempt to be someone who I deem to be me, but I myself do not even know who that is.

My future is dim: previous choices from an ignorant part of myself are coming back to me, and I can't do anything about it; I am well aware knowing the future is impossible, and that I shouldn't worry about it, but I can't help myself. Death is a guaranteed end, and, if I am to stay alive for the days that come, I will surely suffer every second of them:

All that because of ignorance. Because of something I did not know. Because I thought everything would be unchanging. I couldn't let my pride go — I let it destroy me at this instant and the time that is left for me.

I remind myself that I was younger, more naive, but the fact it was my own doing is the most disgusting part of it: I ruined myself without meaning to.

It makes me cry, as it is the only thing I can do: I curse to myself as if it were to bring me back and change decisions, but it is simply impossible; I bite down on what I can just to try and break free of a dream that isn't even one. “I don't even deserve pity,” I say. “Who are you?” I ask myself.

“I am no one,” I answer.