For some reason, I must like making up these silly little stories in my head.

I must like getting my hopes up, thinking something is real when it isn’t.

I must like getting those hopes crushed.

I know it’s in my head. I know I’m wrong. I know I’m stepping on thin ice here, I know… none of it is real.

But I make up these stories in my head anyways. Stupid stories. Stupid… dreams, hopes.

None of it means anything. Nothing. I can’t get it through my head, that none of it… means anything.

I wish it did. Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why I like killing myself like this, all in my head. Wishing. Believing the stupid little stories, when I know the whole time that they can’t be true.

It’s ridiculous. It’s crazy. It’s nonsensical. It’s so, so stupid.

Again and again. I make myself believe it. Again and again. Getting hurt. All because of the stupid little dreams, the stupid little stories.

None of it is real.
None of it ever was.