It’s not even 1 a.m. yet.

It strikes when I come back home from a long day out; that dreadful feeling almost feels like nothing at all. I feel too empty, shouldn't I be feeling happy that I spent a day with a friend, or that I was able to get things done? So why is it that I feel worse than before? On nights when I feel lonely, there's never anyone to go to. But perhaps, I'm not only by myself. After all, I have the flesh on my bones and the hairs on my head to keep me company. How pitiful, that I have to lie and convince myself that I'm not alone.

Sometimes, I beg God to let me keep my life. I once wrote myself a list of things that I must do in this life, purposefully making it long and hard to complete so that I could buy myself more time. I'm so scared and afraid that one day I'll slip back to that state, where the only thing keeping me alive is the promise that I would go to France one day, live alone in an apartment in New York, and find someone to eventually marry. It didn't matter that it would be a meaningless life... as long as it kept me alive, it was fine, right?

I thank God that I have passed that stage in my life, but those feelings never really went away now, did they? It still lies at the back of my mind, forcefully pushed away so that I won't feel the same pain again. Maybe if I don't acknowledge it, it won't ever catch up to me.