The thing about me is, I crave to feel special. I’m obsessed with trying to get people to like me, yet putting very little effort into keeping such sentiment.

The thing I’m scared most about life is, there is sure to be someone who will cry at my funeral. And I try to keep it that way. Because I’m sure that,

As soon as that number drops to zero, I would gladly die.

I’m terrified of the thought that my sad attempt at life will affect somebody so much as to make them cry at my death. I’ve tried so hard to keep everyone happy, so that they don’t have to suffer any sadness because of me; to break their heart simply because I cease to exist is just too much to bear.

Hence I live.

Not out of goodness to keep others from suffering, just as long as it’s not caused by me.

I’m convinced an existence such as mine shouldn’t be the other end of an emotional attachment. I wish such trouble for no one.

I’m also convinced no one is capable of such generosity, tolerating the “me” that I know. If there were a better version of myself, I doubt I believe in it. At one point or another, people are bound to leave. Onto their own lives, their own adventures. Soon enough I’ll be forgotten.

Night and night again, I wonder if that night is the night I can relieve them all of myself. The joy that thought brings.

I reach out, but scared to burden. I want to be heard, yet wish for silence.

I will not die as long as there are those who wish for me to live.

But I do wonder at times, what is it that will make that wish go away.