Be my asylum.

I just don't know what to do. All I can do is keep living, but... is this really living? I keep saying no. This isn't living. If I were to die tomorrow, God forbid, I will not have truly died, because I have not truly lived.


I'm lonely as a hermit in the mountains in a post-apocalyptic alternate reality where no one but him speaks English and all the mountain animals are either dead or turned into psychotic mutants pumped so full of radiation they glow fiercly even in broad daylight.


It's been getting worse. And all these humans being so stupid with love and being so pathetic and absolutely mental just makes me want to punch a hole in their chests. Honestly, I don't know how much more I can take. I don't know how many more people I can watch suffer and wither away because of their own senseless stupidity. Maybe that's conceited. I don't care.


It's really getting to me. Every day, that aching and painful, burning longing grows deeper and more intense. It's killing me. I'm dying. Slowly. Fortunately, suicide has never, is not, and will never be an option.


Then, there's the fun, dreadful monotony of life. Every day is just the same as the next. Every week is the same as any other. It's like I'm going through each week, then rewinding the clock and living it again. And again. And again. I'm trapped. And again. Can't escape. And again. This is mad. And again. I'm dying. And again. Nothing changes. And again. This is killing me. 


This is all just so ridiculous. I hate it. But there's not a thing I can do about it. And that's the hardest part. Seeing everything fall to pieces, fully aware, but chained to a rock, a Prometheus, with the eagles tearing out my liver. Not able to do anything even if I could. 


Ergh. I hate everything. I need a vacation. Or a punching bag.


Moral of the story: he who hasn't lived can never die.


I guess that means I'm immortal?