Talking to myself

As if. Being left. Spare me the trouble? What do I want with it? Where is it going? Is it going anywhere? It is all so dangerous. A rollercoaster. Ups and downs. Fine today, maybe not tomorrow. Whose fault is it? Is it anybody's? Is it a disease? If so, is what I feel a disease? Is feeling a disease? Why do you do it with me? Why do you put up with me? So much tenderness, and at the same time so much suffering and pain and pills and wanting and hoping and dreaming. Where is it going? Me? I don't what what to do with me or what to expect from me or if I should expect anything from me. Why spare me? I know what happens. And that makes me sigh, and suffer. Because maybe nothing is real, no matter how much I want it to be. It will never be, will it? It is all so fake. Living is so fake. Being here is a lie. And I'm tired of lying. I'm sick and tired of it. I'm sick and tired of myself, but then there's me. Who knows, but me, what may be? Does anyone else?