This isn’t about anything

This isn’t about anything. I’m writing this alone in my condo because I’m feeling lonely and scared.

This isn’t about anything. I’m writing because it’s the only healthy way I can stop my brain from going into overdrive.

This isn’t about anything. I’m writing because I’m tired, so tired, of having my friends bear my shitty thoughts for another day. I’m tired of being a burden to those who I cherish so dearly.

So I choose to write, instead. Even if this doesn’t lead anywhere. Even if this won’t make any structural sense.

I keep saying that this isn’t about anything, but maybe it’s about the fact that I can’t deal anymore and my fingers on this laptop is the only way I can get through these crawling hours.

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