and then it hits you

making my breakfast for tomorrow ahead of time, as I do, typically, often, no, sometimes, I disappeared into the silence. and it hit me. dark, grief, pain, worry, the weight. the overwhelming weight. the hopelessness. inescapable. the nonsense. the noise. I thought about screaming, crying, doing both at the same time. I held it in. I can't do this right now, I thought. none of that will help the 'this.' not that this will help the 'this.' the writing, I mean. I'm not really certain why I'm writing, to be completely honest. this seems more like a journal entry I'll hopefully forget about in a few months time. but it does feel like the weight of reality finally settled in on me, which is a real pity because I was enjoying being delusional. I don't want to be a cynic, a pessimist. I want to indulge optimism, joy. but I'm running on empty. and it's all eating away at me. and I'm just sad, you know? I'm sure you know. we all are, at least a little. I don't want to be. I don't want to be…