Every step is pain. It would be better if I thought someone out there reads my stuff and understands, even empathizes. Happiness seems tied to others with me. I can't be happy on my own. If I had no one, I'd off myself in the soonest possible moment. As it stands, I have my Mom, my Brother, and my Dad. I encounter a few others with sympathy on this long and lonely walk through hell, but I still feel like I'm being carried. The people that beat me in my childhood, ruining my youth, have everything I want: success, love, understanding, and dignity. I've lost success in this murky haze I call perception. Requited love seems more distant than even my early past. Dignity is still in the balance; I'm a second class citizen, now, so I expect for that to collapse; most everything in my life goes down anyway.
This is my hell. I'd ask some of you to walk it with me, but I don't think anyone with sense should stick around. I'm too down. I'm too blue. I'm too much the same no matter what happens. I can't inflict myself on any of you in good conscience. It's not fair to you. I only write this as you carry me from round to round, beating me to within an inch of my life, because it helps you gauge your fists.a
Normally, I'd pray for guidance. However, if I kneel, the Many Armed Knight will attack. It doesn't matter anyway. Any thoughts I'd put out would garner responses to protect you more than help me. Tomorrow is another round. Keep carrying me, it seems like good sport to most of you.