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I am miserable and dead inside, I am ugly and uninteresting. Yet it hasn’t always been like this. Before that, I was a well-integrated young man. I had friends, a girlfriend, a life. This girl, whom I stayed with for years, was gentle and beautiful. She was gentle and loving, I was jealous and manipulative. Our relationship ended at the same time as everything else, and it was all my fault. I was a degenerate, surrounded by degenerates. I was wading in self-destructive nihilism, just like those around me. I was addicted to sex, I smoked, I drank, I fought whenever I could. I sought suffering everywhere. I had confidence in myself, or at least I gave that impression. I was the “funny guy,” the leader, the one who spoke louder than the others. I was arrogant, like all those detestable young men.

That period might look like a dream life to some, but for me, it was already hell. After a while, a sharp awareness settled in that something was wrong, then came the gradual disgust for that decadent, destructive, and death-driven life. I wanted to die, to disappear, so I dropped everything overnight: studies, friends, girlfriend, alcohol, cigarettes. I left it all behind and returned to my parents. I saw my ex again some time later and we slept together. As I left her place, I wanted to gouge out my eyes, to tear off my skin. It was the act too many. So I shut myself in. I sank into inaction. At first, I only needed calm. Just a few weeks. Then I found a job, which I quit after two months. I wasn’t ready, I needed more time. Just a year, then another. That was four years ago.

In four years, I haven’t really changed. I’ve gained a little weight, lost some muscle. Life has left my eyes. I’ve become cynical and humourless. I once had the right word, the sharp comeback. And then this devouring apathy, dotted with mood swings to feel alive, in vain. I worked three weeks recently. I think they found me strange. The emptiness in my eyes must scare people.