This.

You don't belong.
You've got to work.
Work harder.
You don't fit in.
You're inadequate.
They don't care.
You need to do more.
Pain isn't important. If they can't feel it, it doesn't matter.
You're going to fail.
You can't do it.
You're a failure.
You're no good.
You're just embarassing the world.
You can't do anything.
Nobody cares.
Nobody wants you.
You're worthless.


They're not necessarily thoughts that you're thinking consciously, but they're all there somewhere. All of these thoughts are closing in on you, pressing down into your mind, forcing you down to a tiny ball on the mud of the Earth. You feel like you're about two inches tall, and the pain of the rejection and insignificance is unbearable. You want to die, but you're not even strong enough to make it happen. You're too much of a coward to ask someone else to. You think you're selfish. You realise it's not death you want, it's just a release from the world you live in, the world that torments you, is too much for you every day. You can't find any sort of release yourself, so you do the next best thing. You curl up on your bed, put some calming music through your headphones and cry, and pray that nobody will find you.


The headphones are playing an old album. It's familiar, like a childhood home. The lyrics speak meaning, but you only hear the harmonic melodies and the beautiful instrumental. It's calming. It allows you to breathe a little clearer, although the weight on your chest still persists. You're calmer, but still not back to normal. It's just a beautiful mendacity.


The world of the internet brings you back to your senses, and you begin to talk to people. People who have no idea what's just been going through your mind. There's a huge difference between the expressions you type and the expression on your face. They can't pick up on that though. You distract yourself with mindless banter. It's better than your natural affliction of thoughts. As you talk, you write. You write fiction at first, trying to escape into the world of someone else's life, but through this medium you can't express what you truly want to. You switch to a blog. This is better. Here you can express everything, so long as your vocabulary allows it. You write everything. You write not to get a message across to others, but to get it across to yourself. This is your way to get things off your chest, and you can feel it getting lighter inside you. You can feel the end of this passage, but you know it'll all happen again sooner or later.


You think over what you've just written, but never read back, in fear of relivig it too vividly. The pain is still lingering, ever-present on the tassles of your mind. What you think you've written sounds good. It's easy to reflect upon. You might have to come back and re-read this someday. But not now. The music is still playing, still calming. It's a chain that stops you from floating off into space. It's keeping you in check.
You want to sleep now. You're done with writing. So you stop.


It's peaceful.