I've always felt like I was someone who shouldn't have been born. I had a fight with my mother before. But I always thought I was right. There are not many more me in the world, but without me, energy will be saved. I have never contributed anything. Forced donations do not count. My mother once said sadly that I had an earthquake once when I was a child, and then I said that I didn’t live enough and didn’t want to die. The adults all laughed. After that I started to despise life.
I always feel that other people's lives are more important than mine. Everyone is trying to live. I am trying to live and die.
I've always fantasized about being shot. Or get into a car accident. Accidents are always good. But it was very quiet, and I didn't go out. The instinctive desire to survive made me escape several times. Or, before it's time for me to die.
There was a serious car accident last year, the whole car flipped 360 degrees and fell into a ditch because of a taxi that suddenly veered off the highway. Mom and Dad are fine, I just suffered a little injury. But the car was scrapped. For a while after that, I stopped wanting to die. I always feel that because I'm always looking forward to dying, I'm making them suffer together. My first reaction was to get out of the car and look for the vehicle that caused the accident, and I wanted to swear at people. There was neither life nor death at that time.
I can't accept that the people around me die before me. Maybe it's my selfishness. But silently looking at the dead people, I don't know whether I shed tears for them or for my sad life. Every day is like the walking dead. Don't tell me to try to live. I have worked very hard, and the struggle with myself has not stopped every day. I wonder when I can stop. When can I be carefree and happy and innocent.
When I was in kindergarten, I was very cute. Everyone liked me and arranged for me to sing and dance. I always remember that every time I cried and hid in the corner, or I suddenly rushed out of the classroom and blushed. At that time, I just wanted to find a dark corner to hide, so that no one could find him.
Now I want to hide again. But looking at the front and the back again, this and that one can't be relieved.
At night, he hid behind the curtains, weeping silently, and looked at the lights of the buildings opposite, flickering on and off. Wet inside.
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