D. 22 januar i år skrev jeg denne tekst. Jeg læste den igen 4 måneder senere. Jeg er nu et helt andet sted, end da jeg skrev den. Det er for mig meget interessant at se, hvor meget jeg har rykket mig på de måneder. D. 22. januar føles meget langt væk, og alligevel husker jeg godt den følelse, jeg havde, da jeg skrev den. Da jeg har boet længe i udlandet, kan jeg udtrykke mine følelser bedre på engelsk, derfor er teksten ikke på dansk.
I wish I had a talent.
Just any talent. But I don’t. I feel like I don’t know anything. Like I’m useless. I wish I could make my family proud. I wish I could be a better person and that I could be happier.
Right now I don’t know what the meaning of my life is. I feel like I’m worthless.
Every day that goes by, I feel more and more stupid. How can I change all of that?
I feel like I’ve given up on life and that I have stopped dreaming. Everything is so heavy on my shoulders. I just want to dig a little hole, and lie in it, until the worms find me and eat me.
I don’t recognise myself when I look in the mirror.
I ask myself, “What’s the point?”
I wish I could be my own best friend again, so I could make myself smile again.
One day, it might be better. The sun might come out. I will wake up full of energy. I will smile at the birds and the trees.
Right now, I can’t. I’m not useful to anyone. I’m just here because I was born 34 years ago. There’s nothing I want. My life does not matter.
I wish I could sleep away.
The only reason why I’m still here is my family. I don’t want to hurt them. So I’ll just stick it out for them.
I am tired. I’m trapped inside my worst enemy. Why is it so hard for me to be kind to myself? I just wish I could be someone else. I wish to scream out to myself to stop being mean to me. To leave me alone and let me be.