I'm definitely not happier, but I'm not sad. I'm troubled, but I'm not worried. I'm crying, but I can't figure out what for.
To cry over something would be to say my life sucks, but which it doesn't; at least, not in this moment. People are okay; I'm not ill; my grades aren't that bad. But then again, it may be that I don't feel close to a single person anymore. In other words, I feel alone. I feel the weight of the world because there is no one to help me push it away. I see my body as I used to think it was: fat and miserable. But I never thought my mind would follow along, play that game. I thought I was better. But the body by day will try to force itself to be happy, and once night comes around you will always realize how you actually feel.
Whether you appear happy, tired, content, saddened, maddened, the real mood of the day will come out. It may take a while, till, say, you try to go to bed. And it may try to consume you. Oh, that witch, that virus in your body; how emotions invade you. They strip you of your guts, until you have nothing left; until you are just what you thought you wouldn't be... but you are.
You could be armed, it wouldn't matter. Your guns only stand for at most five minutes. You can't fight emotions. They emerge from your deepest valve to poison the air whether or not you bring a tank to fight it off. And after they had torn you apart and decided that you're ruined enough, you start to wonder: how could you have thought, guessed, suspected that you could stand five seconds against it? Only the well trained, and gifted, and the literally awesome men can. So how would you, a morsel, fend them off?
You don't. You let the beast infect your heart, and worse still, your brain. And once he gets there, don't be surprised. Never underestimate the power he holds; he can bring you down if he wants to. Why, he often makes you feel the Hopeless, the Desperation. He knows just how to harm you. He sees it weaken the bones, muscles, the fiber of your being, your person. He knows. He's a psychic, a devil, a Venus, he's what's wrong with us. He feeds our problems, delivers them gasoline and adrenaline.
If only he'd feed us the morphine.
Instead, he likes to watch you squabble and writhe around in your bed at night, deeply dissatisfied and disconsolate. Please, if he brought you good times, you know the worst is yet to come. You should know, anyways, because that slithering cat is going to try to rip you out, piece by piece.
And it's so easy to decimate you, even easier when you have fond memories. "Why can't I be happy anymore?" You have something to compare it to. You have a lifetime, a childhood of upbeat memories and compliments, of best-day's-ever, and that old boy will eat them out of you if he has to. He'll throw down the hammer. Your time is up! he says. And out you go, like a flock of pidgeons.
One, two, three, four, five of them at a time, taking their leave, with little or no trace.
We are dispensable, disposable, replaceable.
There has never been any reason to believe otherwise.
So this is the plan, soldier. You are going to defend home plate. You're going to try to defeat the impending Grand Slam, because what else can you do? Quit in the middle of the pitch? Or even worse, give up before you even wound up your arm for the spin? Instead, you fight your way through the weeds. You never know, maybe instead of the Grim, you'll find utopia. Even if you pitch a ball that's too easy to hit, or you just barely missed the ball thrown at you, you know you tried. And you know you left a little more of an impression in the sand.
Honestly, I've never seen anyone with more potential than you. So I know you'll put up a good fight.
Give them hell.