Dear Ada,
I am sure that all humans have long since tired of hearing about my emotions, so I’ll write to you instead. I’m really starting to dislike myself. I look at all the things I waste, all the useless things I do. Why am I such a sorry creature, that seems to only exist for love? Why do I wither so quickly, stray so far off the path when merely my heart is feeling a bit blue?
I’m sick of having to be this person, always worrying about this or that … being this person who cares too much about the conveniences of other people while also being too judgmental of them. And there’s nothing more shameful than me, when everything I spout is utter nonsense now. Ugly, utter nonsense.
I hate myself and I wish I could just stay in a dream forever. I want to lie and say whatever is more mature. But no, this is what I feel, and I need to say it to someone. I’m sorry that it has to be you, but you’re a journal by occupation.
What use is it, what use is it …
Farewell,
Justin
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