It is raining. My eyes slowly let in the world as I am forced to allow myself back into it. My stomach churns, my heart aches, and my mind is once again bombarded with millions of unwanted thoughts, quickly numbing my limbs and causing me to feel horribly and typically paralyzed. I do not want to pry the covers off of me, my body is lifeless, the day does not really need to begin like any and every other day, boring and redundant. I am never awake, my body never feels revitalized and alive. I drink gallons of coffee just to get me going a little bit. I think about myself. I think about how I was and how I felt just a few days ago, absolutely manic and consumed with a hyper, unnamed happiness. I look at the person critically and I honestly do not recognize her as myself, although she spoke with my voice and wore my clothes. And now here I am. I look at the puddles decorating the streets, the rain pounding the surfaces mercilessly, making them as imperfect as nature should be. And I try to find myself in them, try to see some sort of reflection, some sort of flicker of recognition. But my reflection is skewed and I am not there. My limbs are almost like chains, so heavy and cumbersome that I can barely breathe, much less use these almost useless weights that I like to call arms and legs to perform day-to-day activities. And all I can think is a question. Why must I make my life so much more difficult that it needs to be? Why must I allow people in to my heart only to have them tear it apart without actually knowing that I had put them in there in the first place? It is not the rain that gets me thinking, but it is the rain that sympathizes with me. The rain is always willing to give me its touch of comfort. It is not a constant friend, it comes and it goes, but when it comes it never really overstays its welcome. It tries to empty my body in any way that it can in order to erase the filth and the hurt that flows through my veins. And I hurt so much. The aching of my insides is a feeling that none can truly put into words but all can relate to. If only there were hospitals that could take and rescue one such as I. Because I need to be rescued. I think that everything in the world is wrong and I am at the root of it. I have created filth and waste that people want to do away with but no amount of cleaning products could ever do the trick. The filth is trapped and it is here to stay. It constantly fights to get out of my body, to leave, and I would love to give it away but I do not have the strength to allow good things to happen in my life. I wonder if everyone is as aware as I am of the absolute sadness, the awful guilt and anxiety that beats me to death on a daily basis. And yes, of course it is all about me. But I do love other people and I do not care about them. But my own selfish needs are always first and foremost in my mind. Is that not the same for everyone? Am I not just as common as the person to my right or left? I just wish that I did not feel the bell jar encompassing me yet again, allowing absolutely nothing to pass in or out. I only make the suffocation worse with the cigarette smoke the is constantly entering and exiting my body, flowing out of my mouth like saliva. The smoke presses into my skin, fills up my lungs until I become smoky and unrecognizable, a being that people analyze but will never, ever understand, whether they know it or not. And that is the way that it must be. And that is the way that I so desire it.