[Log-6: Burning]
My eyes are burning.
They sting like they want to cry—like they're desperate to shed something, anything. But nothing happens. My body won't let the tears fall. It doesn't see the point. It doesn't think that'll solve anything.
It's 3:10 a.m.
I'm not physically tired. I could stay awake for hours, probably days. But my mind? My mind is dragging. Screaming for silence. Pleading for everything to just stop, if only for a minute. My thoughts feel heavy, like they're wrapped in chains. My emotions are raw, blistered from boiling underneath my skin, day after day, night after night.
I want to break.
Just crack wide open and let it all pour out. Let the pieces scatter across the floor so I don't have to keep gathering them again and again. I'm tired of pretending I'm whole. Tired of holding everything together with tape and forced smiles. Tired of fighting battles no one else can see.
It's like I'm trapped underwater, trying to swim to the surface with cinderblocks chained to my ankles. Every kick is slower than the last. My lungs burn for relief. My body aches to stop moving. And sometimes, I wonder—what if I just let go? What if I stop fighting and let the water take me?
What about the ones who didn't make it out?
The ones who gave up quietly. Who slipped beneath the surface without a sound. What happened to them? Are they at peace? Were they swallowed whole and forgotten, just like they feared?
Am I next?
Am I already halfway there?
I don't know. But it feels like I'm fading. Like I'm becoming less of a person and more of a shadow. A statistic waiting to be counted.
I'm tired.
Not the kind of tired that a nap or a vacation fixes. Not even the kind a week of sleep could touch. I'm soul-tired. Reality-tired. Existence-tired.
I want to go home. But I don't even know where that is. Not anymore. Not mentally. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. My house doesn't feel like home. My room is just a box I exist in. My bed is just a place I lie awake.
God. Religion. Jesus. I was raised on all of it. I still try.
I still pray, sometimes. Whispering desperate, fractured sentences to a sky I can't see. Hoping something hears me. That something cares. But it always feels like I'm screaming into a vacuum. Words echoing off the walls of an empty church.
What's the point?
Someone—anyone—tell me what the point is.
Tonight, I felt the tears start to build. I really did. Pressure behind my eyes. A flicker of something real. But just like always, it vanished. My body decided not to let them fall. Just like it always does. Like it's scared to release anything real.
I'm not asking for help. Not anymore. I've done that. I've opened up. I've sat in uncomfortable chairs in quiet rooms while strangers tried to fix me. I've tried. But none of it sticks. None of it stays.
I'm just tired.
Tired of dragging myself through the same cycle. Tired of holding onto hope like it's a rope fraying in my hands. Tired of believing in things that always end up breaking or disappearing.
I don't want to give up.
But I'm so, so tired.
I think my soul's been running on fumes for a long time. Maybe since the beginning. Maybe I never had a full tank to start with. Maybe I've always been running on empty and only now realizing just how far gone I am.
[End of Log-6: Burning]