Selfish Mind

Every day, every single day I wake up tired. No matter what time it is, no matter how much sleep I got, no matter what I did that day. I wake up tired, wishing I could sleep longer. Some days I force myself out of bed out of some obligation to do something. Other days it just seems like I have to get out of bed. When I'm in bed all I do is think. Constantly. About everything, or maybe nothing. It just doesn't stop until I am too exhausted and drown my thoughts with sleep. Sometimes I think about life, sometimes death. I guess I've been more optimistic lately, so more about life. I always ask why. I'm too afraid of how. Too afraid of what or when. It makes me angry, at life, but more at myself. I keep thinking about what's wrong with people, what's wrong with the world. When I finally find out what's wrong with me, I just ignore it. I usually think it's all going to be better, but it never is. I think nobody will understand. I think it's all in my head, and I just need to get over it. Maybe that's true. Maybe I just need to move on. But I dwell, that's what I do, that's what I've always done. Focus on what could have been better for me, what I could have done better, why they didn't do what would have been best for me. I want to help people. I want to understand the world from your perspective. Sympathize with your problems, and do everything I can to make sure you're happy. But I can't. Lately I've been trapped. I've been so caught up in my own pain. My own emotions. I can't even think about the pain someone else could be going through. I have pity for myself. For myself, what's so bad about my life? Nothing. I could be homeless, starving, diseased, dying, oppressed, or even a politician. But no, woe is me. To wallow in the emotions all people have. My will wants to move on, but my mind is stubborn and stagnant. I'm truly and deeply sorry to those who are worse off than I. To the people who are hurting. But action speaks louder than words. And what have I done to help. I am pathetic. And what do I write about? About my feelings. Not anyone else's, not something that could help someone else. I wrote about me. Maybe because I can only know my feelings, but still it's for my own benefit. How pitiful. And to think, after writing this I feel relieved. Like it's all out in the open. And all the people who need my help, still need my help. Well I will be here. Drowning in my sorrow, hoping that one day, I can help someone else.