My inner surrounding envisions everything complexly, and so does my external. The world, which once used to be only a supplier of ceaseless mirth, now only unclasps sadness. With every phrase I construe in a book, tune I hear from an unknown song, and noise I hear from the external world — even the tiny disturbance made by extreme silence, my mind seem to run in circles. What’s supposed to be taken as casual it is is being delved too deep. Though the words or melody or sound only and honestly suggest happiness, my psyche interprets it oppositely. It wants everything that enters me be infected with destructive yet addictive thoughts.
I feel like everything will be much better if I just shut down completely. What a way to live my life.