I hate packing. It makes me realise how little of a person I am. Take away the CDs, the DVDs, the books, the clothes, the trinkets, the posters on the walls, the stupid words on a stupid goddamn whiny blog, and there is barely anything left of me. A scrap of half-baked thoughts and feelings. Not enough to fill a whole person, a proper person with hopes and ambitions and dreams and desires, and the strength and passion to fulfill at least some of those goals. I just don't have that strength or that passion. I've tried, but there's nothing inside myself to draw from. I'm empty. I don't know what went wrong.

I think the reason I'm scared to get close to people is because it wouldn't take them long to find out what a non-person I am, and then I'd be left all on my own and I'd just disappear completely. Sometimes this thought scares me. Sometimes it doesn't.

I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm just using up oxygen meant for real people.

But in the morning I'll get up and go out and keep pretending, because that's what I always do.