Empathy

The glasses shine with the dim backlight of the screen as I run my keys across the keyboard
Small insects attracted to the warm light of the ice-cold screen
I sit alone with the voices and intrusive thoughts in this cold and aloof room
The only sources of light are the laptop screen and the slight amount of photons
That manage to creep through the curtains and shine brightly against the wall
It’s been days and days since I’ve had what they’d call a “Good Night’s Sleep” in a dystopian land
Why do I stay awake? For whom do the eyes refuse to shut
I keep glaring at screens. Technology definitely is a bane in such conundrums.
My eyes seem hungry for photons even though they’re well-fed throughout the day
And even then they seem starved; One look at me and you can clearly notice the starvation
They remain hungry. As I type, my hands struggle to move across the keys. I make typos and delete.
I’m cold, even inside this warm and cozy blanket, I can feel my legs and arms and shoulders and forearms and chest and stomach and knees, all being so cold, everything just hurts of the cold now
This stupid and strange will of not falling asleep, as if I made a deal with the Devil, and now my peace is all his
This cold, alone, insomniac, aloof feeling where I can’t seem to move without a thousand thoughts deeming the next action of moving a finger and taking 5 minutes before even having the power to lift the tip so much so as to move the whole finger might take hours, and with every single movement, there is the afterthought of why and how and what if and why not this and the list goes on.
This state I like to call it anxiety. My Anxiety. It might be different for you. This is how my mind goes about every single night.
It is still cold, and I still type with god knows what power,
But typing seems to be the only out. As I see the characters echo on the screen one by one, I feel warmer and warmer, just like the insects flying toward the screen
I don’t know how to fix this
I don’t even know if this can be fixed or not
I just know that accepting this is the last thing I want to do
Because a thought as small as “Pressing the wrong key every time I type and instead of the inverted comma reaching out for the semicolon” is not as big of a mistake as the voices tell me it is and I shouldn’t really be ashamed for it or be punished for it or put an end to everything for it
The voices are more than real and they’re not very unknown. It’s you. You are the worst thing that happens to you and it is at that point when you simply don’t control yourself. You can only deny it to a certain point after which it takes over. The voices are very much awake at night.
I hate this place. I hate everything. I don’t want to go away. I want to stay. I just want to be. Is that a considerable request? Am I worthy of being? Or is it all just in my head? I’ll try to close my eyes and be. I just hope I wake up in the morning.