My Tiny Little Apartment, My Tiny Little Life

    Every day, every night, I wake up in the same little apartment... It's what I can have, it solely consists of a small room and a bathroom, but what else could I ask for? I don't do anything to get better conditions or a decent life, it's natural. I waste away my days, sleeping, wandering around, writing and drawing shit and destroying myself like there is no tomorow... I feel like I'd die if I didn't. I did this to myself.

     The walls are old, the paint is falling, there are stains from the humidity on the ceiling, and stains on the ground from whatever it may be... You wouldn't want to know. It's decadence, it's the reflection of what is around me, and it is what I've become. It smells, it's just like the owner. The owner who is laying on the old mattress, worn out and dirty. I sit up, after some battling with myself if I should even move. If I should even breathe. My back imidiatly hurts, my head spins and my eyes are foggy. I stair into the space until I feel less sick, then I look over to my phone, that I keep next to me. It's whatever hour it is. I don't have a schedule. I don't decide when I sleep, sometimes I want to but sometimes I pass out, and I know why... 

     I get up, after a long time, really long time. Gaining courage, because my body feels numb, because I know it will hurt. I take the cigarettes out of the ground and I light one, with my trembling hands, I feel weak, I can only think of that first breath in. Of that first puff of smoke, as I open the window. My mood gets slightly better, the anxiousness is slightly softer now, and I rub my eyes. I look out the window, the city doesn't make it any better. All I see are copies of eachother, people similar a me, as we all blend in perfectly with everything around us. It's no surprise... Although it upsets me. It upsets me to see how my beloved city... My dear city is. I think everyone would feel this way, if they lived how and what I have. I feel the fresh air on my face and sweaty hair. The light hurts my skin, even though it may not even be a lot. 

     I hear from the window of my down neighbours, they are arguing again. As always. And I, and everyone else, can listen to everything. As always. I try to ignore it as I finish this first cigarette and close the window. My eyes are fixated on the sky before I turn to my room. I feel disgust, I am ashamed... But I shake my head, try to forget it. I stare at the degenerate picture, the mattress, the ashtray next to it, the absence of any pillow or blanket. The black chocolate bar I left from last night... It's half eaten, why did I even buy that? The half empty bottle... Oh god. The candle. The god damn candle, right next to all her siblings. I wish I could fucking burn my throat with that bullshit. How I wish I could just throw it away. The melted wax is on the ground, how did it already burn so much? I swear, two or so weeks ago I bought it... Guess I gotta buy more, but not today, I don't wanna go out today... But maybe I will, I only have that half a bottle. As I said, I have no schedule. 

     I am killing myself. I am slowly fading, taking away my humanity. Smoking, snorting, injecting, consuming every little piece of empathy and humanity, of sanity down to my bones, scraping every little grain of what everyone recognised me as before. All my acts are a scream for death, not for help. All my acts are so I can suffer more... This text is one of it. It's useless. Truly... 

     If you are what you eat I am nothing. I've become so deprived of everything, basic things have become totally secondary and despensable. My isolation from the world... I look at the bathroom, the bathroom that is very dusty, just like the house, and I stand right in front of the mirror... I didn't do that in a long time. My hair is long, messy and greasy, my eyes are blue, so blue, how did they maintain it's colour after all? It's the only thing that I still tolerate about my appearance. The rest of me is laughable. My beard is unshaved, I look skinny, I'm unkept, it doesn't get better. The opposite. My clothes are just the same. Because they are the same everyday, I don't have a lot of them. 

     I wash my face with water, wake myself up, just a little more. My steps on the parched wooden planks are audible as I walk out of the bathroom. I step on some papers, there are many papers on the ground. Full of garbage drawn or written on it. Full of useless scribbles. I try not to look at it, because I know it will just make everything worse. I am tired, I feel my body shutting down, my bones hurt, my head might even explode. So I sit again on the mattress where I try to relax a little, to rest a little. I drink a bit... I smoke more, I close my eyes because the subtle light from the outside bothers me, because my eyelids have no more strength, and I just sit there, I lay down, waiting for the impossible to happen...