I am still in that place where I feel like there is no point in living but I am afraid to die. In a perfect world I could sleep until my wounds healed. Sleep in a quiet, dark cloud. Warm and oblivious to all the garbage inside. I must be doing  something wrong. I try to let the feeling be, It becomes a constant sadness. I suppose nothing will ever heal. I am who I am and nothing else. I'm locked inside. Then again maybe not. Maybe there is nothing inside. Finally I am sleepy. I like sleep. I like quiet sleep with no dreams. I think the hurt I feel when I first wake up is because I wish I hadn't woken up.