I’m utterly fed up with answering people’s endless questions. My mind is a chaotic mess, tangled and disoriented. I don’t even have answers to my own dilemmas, yet everyone bombards me with theirs: Why did you do this? Why that? Why aren’t you doing something else? Why no plans for the future? I despise that aggressive kind of “concern” that feels more like an invasion than genuine care. I’m sick of feeling like I’m on trial every time I respond.
Maybe I’m just not wired for human connections. A useless autistic soul, adrift without purpose or progress. Stuck in neutral, spinning wheels in the mud. A perpetual wanderer going nowhere. I don’t even bother trying to grab attention anymore. In social settings and everyday responsibilities, I come off as rude and oblivious. I have zero patience for my medical shifts—I drag myself through them on autopilot.
This whole immigration ordeal is like a thorn lodged in my eye, constantly tormenting me. A dark, endless shadow hanging over everything. God, I wish I’d never set foot on this path. Everyone else seems to be building empires, growing, surging forward. And me? What do I have to cling to? Absolutely nothing of substance. I produce no real impact; no one takes me seriously enough to feel my influence.
My drives—for growth, for making a difference, for financial stability and advancement—they all go unfulfilled. That meager monthly income vanishes into thin air like smoke. One big expense crops up, and I’m screwed. This life feels like pure filth, a swamp, a stagnant bog. I’m suffocating. I have nothing left to say, yet people keep probing, interrogating, demanding answers. I just want to scream at them to shut up.
Or maybe escape to Japan, track down that organization that helps with “digital suicide”—wipe my name, my identity from every database, and vanish. Start fresh somewhere new. Man, I’m truly wrecked, and it feels like there’s no escape hatch. The UK looms over my life like a curse—I can’t break free from it, nor fully claim it. It’s absolute hell. I’m exhausted. From everything. Like a parched dog gasping in the summer blaze, desperate for relief.
What am I even chasing? I have no clue. I wish I could rack up wins like normal folks, conquering one milestone after another. All I have is this cursed mental sharpness, which rots away in my inertia. Nothing thrills me anymore—not substances, not distractions. Wasting time on games just piles on the guilt. The voices in my head are harsher than ever, berating me nonstop.
If only people stopped with the questions. I’ve become like a house with a pristine facade but crumbling ruins inside. Emotions stacked up like debris. Hope flickering low. The shadow of war creeps in, its stench unmistakable. Those clerics cling to power, refusing to budge. Hilariously, I think my surveillance operator has a crush on me. Everything’s a joke. What do i even need?
***
Hang me oh hang me
I’ll be dead and gone
Hang me oh hang me
I’ll be dead and gone
Wouldn’t mind the hanging
But the laying in the grave so long
Poor boy
I’ve been all around this world
Put the rope around my neck
Hung me up so high
Put the rope around my neck
Hung me up so high
Last words I heard him say:
Won’t be long now ‘fore you die
Poor boy
I’ve been all around this world