At some point, you stop caring. You look at your life, day after day, and see what it is. You look toward your future and see what it is. It’s work, it’s hardships, it’s waking up in the morning and wishing you could just sleep the rest of the day. But you’ve been taught that it’s worth it. You’ve been told that so often that you tell that to yourself. You get up in the morning, you work, you endure the pain because your loved ones, your fun times, life’s beauties make it worth it.
Sometimes you can acknowledge life’s joys, your loved ones and all the other wonderful shit that you don’t deserve. You can acknowledge that your life is pretty damn good. You have friends and family who would die for you, and you would die for them. You experience moments that you will cherish forever. You see things so mystical and beautiful that they give you a sense of a bigger picture, a sense of paradise. Sometimes you can sit back and just know, just feel, that life is good.
Then there are other times. Times when you have everything and you know it. You know that life is good, but you don’t feel it anymore. You still have the great moments, but you begin to question if they are worth it. If the day-in/day-out struggle is worth it. You’re so afraid of the answer that you dismiss it and believe that one day it’ll all make sense.
And other times the feelings are so lost, you don’t care. You don’t care about how ungrateful you seem. You don’t care about the good times. You don’t care about beauty, at least not the same way you did before. You still love your friends and family, though. You would still die for them. That will never change. But you don’t love yourself. You don’t love life. You don’t want death but the pain of not caring, the fear of this being your life, it’s torture. At some point the fear becomes overwhelming enough that you don’t love anything enough to endure.