I don't understand human beings sometimes. Sometimes, I can see right into others' souls. I've been studying human behavior for years, because for me, it's not as intuitional as it is for most, and I still don't get it. For me, being human is a daily struggle because what surrounds me is a society of freaks, and I want to fit in, because being lonely seems worse than being mad.

Some things are clear as day for me: I can look at a new piece of technology and figure out what buttons to press and what switches to turn in seconds, to everyone's silent awe. Some things are dim as night: finding the right words to say to a person for them to appreciate you can be really tough, for everyone has their own measure of what they like, and I want to be appreciated, for I don't want to be alone. It's odd that I'm most comfortable with a computer yet how bad I yearn to hug another person and tell them "I love you" while meaning it.

I can think of dozens of high ideas that will make the world a better place, yet I struggle to bring myself up even a notch. It's hard to think that I'm not perfect, even though I know I'm not; wrestling with my ego daily is a battle I'm often losing despite my best intentions and the good view of the destination... or, so I believe.

My head is empty. I'm used to thinking, to talking to myself inside, and so everything else inside of me is so quiet I can barely hear it at times. Empathy is a thing I didn't know I had until it started screaming one day, and that scream was to me like a etherial whisper. Feelings others' pain is unbearable when myself has plenty to work through, a process that's not to finish any time soon. To lull myself, I think, work ideas through and weave them together, which sometimes produces something very interesting, something I can use for my writing and in real life - but often, when I talk to myself, I can hear blame and self-denial.

I'm ridden with the ideas of how bad I am more often than I can count. I doubt most things I do, which is good, because not long ago the number was "everything", - and I have to fight these thoughts off because I know they aren't good for me. I'm afraid to talk about it because I'm terrified of rejection, that I'll fail even more with that, that I'll lose friends I turned out to not even care about - and I should have. I push people away when they get too close, and I'm not the only one to do so: right now, there's at least one person doing what I regret doing but couldn't bear to do; it's one too many having troubles keeping themselves together because their whole existence so far rests on the fact that they're too much of a failure to do themselves some better.

I've been blessed with the ability to look inside myself and see cogs turning; I don't know whom to be grateful for, but I am, even though early on it led to suffering I could barely handle. I came to be very good at handling pain but terrible at expressing it in ways that could actually do some good to me. Writing about it is so much easier than talking about it aloud that it makes my head go round - which it doesn't in reality: it's the exaggeration I learned while studying humans around me; apparently, it's an accepted way of expressing yourself, even though it's idiotic in that's it's totally wrong. With that, too, I must cope: the world doesn't make sense oftentimes. Apparently, the inner world we have inside isn't enough, so we have to make our feelings bigger, more interesting, more deserving attention. Anything less than physical pain doesn't deserve our attention - and that, too, can be overcome.

Who gives a shit about a guy who prefers to sit in the corner alone? He's just a weirdo, leave him alone; maybe it's contagious or something. It's when that weirdo stands on the edge of the roof, looking down scared but his angry mind thrusting him forward, that they start caring. I bet I got your attention, too, talking about suicide. Nobody gives a shit about the guy until it's too late and the damage is done. Then, humans prefer to find something to blame - his anger-fueled music, his anger-fueled videogames, his anger-inducing idols - rather than accept the simple reality that they, as a society, failed - failed to recognize the damage and do something to keep it from happening in the first place.

People are odd like that: rather than talking about things that are actually important - suicide, mental health, how human we all are - they'd prefer to talk about how bad this group of people that they've never seen in front of them is.

Strangely, I see it as, at some level, my responsibility, and it makes my heart ache - again, exaggeration - to hear people rush into angry debates about whether this political leader is a good guy or this war yields something positive to us. What are they achieving by being angry for everyone to see? What is their debate's worth? What's its point? Changing minds? Well, maybe that's the problem: that we have to feed people opinions instead of letting them form their own.

And for some reason, I feel responsible.

I have not as much idea about life as I'd like to think. Living in a bubble, I came to believe with time that what I know is all I have to know; it's when through the bubble come news about how shallow and empty I am as a person and how little I know that I realize just how little I've seen - and how much I want to see. I've been living in one place for twenty years without once seeing real life outside; the days-long tours to other countries don't count. I've never seen significant trouble, I've never experienced significant loss; my life is stale enough for me to never get into such troubles, and as much as I'd like to do so, my whole body and mind yell at me to stop, because it's dangerous to my integrity, because it's going to be very painful, because this, because that, because blah, blah, blah...

I've made my life into an iron cage without noticing, and I only did because a person I barely know asked me what do I do for a hobby, what do I enjoy doing. At that moment, I expected some grandiose moment of insight to experience - instead, my head was empty, no thoughts passed through, and I could hear a very quiet click somewhere behind the stage. I expected a loud bang, but apparently and despite what movies told me, it's not what happens when you realize something important.

I had great plans, big dreams, yet for some reason, they slowly faded into void, leaving me alone, staring at the screen from dawn till dusk, watching funny YouTube videos to ease the chaos inside. Maybe it's because I don't deserve big dreams, or maybe it's because I don't care much about life. I have nothing going on, and I hope for something to happen just to add some excitement, to freshed up the stiff air. This time, I don't feel powerless like I used to: I feel, truly, that I don't care - and it terrifies me. Is it exaggeration again? I don't know.

I have not a single person I can talk to about it, so instead, I tell it to a community of strangers with whom I've barely exchanged a few written notes. Ridiculous, what my life has become for a person who used to have big dreams. I can't open up to people I care about, so I let myself be heard by a bunch of people I can't even see.

I don't want to go, but - it's disturbing how - the thought of it creeps through. I grasp onto every single opportunity to justify my existence, but so far, the effort has been fruitless: for every little good feeling from a video or a beatiful dog photograph, I miss a giant beast creeping around waiting for its time - or, I'm too scared to look it in the eye, because then, I'd have to think about suicide, and that -- is terrifying. Not an exaggeration.

Writing about suicide, though, feels right, even as it sends chills down my spine. I always thought of myself as a person who can handle anything life can give him, which, it seems, is a lie I told myself to cover the pain I felt because I didn't want to disturb anybody with this - because I knew how disturbing it is, even when I didn't care to admit it. Might it be what other people feel when they suddenly kill themselves? Might they just be realizing how heavy their life is for them to handle, yet choose against reaching out because they don't want others to have their pain, because of them? I can't know, but it sounds like a viable option.

It's peculiar how mood can dictate one's worldview - and how it dictates mine. When I'm depressed, I see the bright moments of my life as mere lies that I must have told myself in order to feel better. When I feel good (I can't say I've ever felt happy, though that might be another lie), I tell myself how all those bad moments are just that - bad moments, to pass at some point. Is this life? Juggling good with bad and hope for it not to explode? I don't know; I can't, for I could never reach in another person's mind. The thought of self-destruction seems appealing, though; maybe it's just some of us - sensitive and mishandled - who see the world as I do.

It's a liberating experience to talk about it all in its true colors, using the exact words. "Sensitive", "mishandled" - it is exactly what happened to me. Writing this is the first time in my life I feel truly myself, truly confident... Truly. Myself. Whole. Right. Integer. How many words for it, look at that, - and how little for the other side. We spend our lives terrified of the dark side of ourselves, and so, we choose not to speak of it. It will make us look weak. Pathetic. Miserable. Sick. Weird. Strange. Plenty of words of alienation, not enough - of pain and struggle. Not enough spoken.

Derek of Veritasium got an interesting point around, about how embracing nihilism could be liberating. I feel like embracing nihilism the way Derek put forth: in that if nothing matters, than there could be no fear. Talking about what I felt, talking about suicide - killing myself - was not only liberating: it relieved the tension. I feel better accepting the fact that I want to die - at least, at some level. It is at this moment that thoughts start swarming in: about how you guys will feel about it, about how I may cause you pain, how I shouldn't do it... Yet, I feel like this is the best thing I've done so far. The most right thing.

Knowing that I want to die made sense, somewhere in the background of my mind to which I have no access. It... makes me more integer, knowing just how bad I feel. As if I gave myself the permission to feel what would otherwise be a very painful experience.

My head is empty. I don't imagine the pain I'm going to feel, and I know I can induce it if my fears are strong enough. I'm not fully calm right now: in my chest, there's some tension, of the kind that appears slowly when you're afraid. I'm afraid. Knowing it make me calmer. Saying it makes me calmer. Even writing it made me calmer. I'm afraid - and it's okay.

My life is empty. I don't know if I want to make it more occupied. But for now, for the first time in my life, I'm calm. I can't use it to persuade myself out of anxiety, but it makes sense somewhere I can't reach. Maybe it will make sense to me, as well, someday.