"Hold me fast, I'm a hopeless wanderer."

My life isn't difficult. It sucks more than a lot of the time, but one would agree that I have a decent life. Even typing those words and I feel like I'm spewing bullshit. Each life is as difficult as it is depending on the type of person that you are. No, I don't starve or crave water day in and day out, but everyone lives in a different world, a world only that person knows. And I believe that my life is heading for the worst. Things, things things- keep piling up on my shoulders and the weight is so unbearable that I feel the strain in my heart, as if I could feel the weight directly on the little weak thing. My chest feels as though it is constructed only of pointy objects, and every time I move an inch I feel the pain of sadness. It's different this time, in the way that I wait around for my pain to subside like it did so many times before, when I know that it won't. It's different in the way that I don't have the energy or care to talk to anybody about it. It's different in the way that things that should normally cheer me up don't. I am scattered. Spacey. Quiet. Slow. Blank. And it frightens me.

I wish I didn't feel like an only child. You told me that you didn't have time for unhappy people, that I had to be happy with myself before I could be happy with people. How sad that you don't realize that I need my sister back in my life to be happy. How sad that you can kick family to the curb when they need you most. How unbearably sad that I realize now how cold you have become.

In these two weeks of total darkness, my imagination has run wild. I thought up a scenario one time where that son of a bitch who changed you happened to stroll up to my register while I was working. Sometimes I'd imagine his mom with him, sometimes it would just be him. He'd be clueless, and I'd be shaking with fury. I'd say what I was supposed to say to each customer: "Hello, how are you today?" but through gritted teeth. He'd say "fine", and I'd say, "Well, that's fucking unfortunate." He'd stare at me and then I'd let it all out. I'd scream at him, I'd tell him that because of him, I no longer have a sister in my life. That because of him, my baby sister is cold and hateful. I'd scream that it's all his fault, it's all his fucking fault. Sometimes I'd imagine him guilty, sometimes I would imagine him quiet. Then I'd hand him his bag and say, "Have a fucking horrible day."

Happiness. It's not only our goal but our duty to find the things that make us happy. For some it comes easy, and for others it doesn't. It's all trial and error until we find it. That's what I've been doing and I feel that the process is hurting someone close to me.

I don't have a clue as to what I'm doing.