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I looked in the mirror at work today and I saw a ghost. 

I looked at my pale cheeks and the telltale rings of fatigue around my eyes. I looked at my tired face, the lines which were hardening around my mouth and the other little signs of stress and illness I could see. 

It hit me then how much I didn’t care about what I was doing. How much I really don’t care.

I don’t care about the scam emergency. 

I don’t care about the upcoming gigs and live events. 

I don’t care about the new ideas on the horizon. 

I don’t care about the work which had to be finished today that I didn’t get anywhere near finishing. 

I don’t care about the other people who work, then go home, then keep working. 

I’d throw them all into hell if I could and not count it as much of a loss. 

I hate this constant pressure and exploration. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!

“What are you doing?” I asked my reflection. “Who are you trying to be? What are you doing this for?”

I wanted to cry. To scream. To take my bag and run out the building and never come back. I collapsed on the loo and held my head in my hands, trying to force back the tears and the panic attack I could feel building inside me. 

I loathe this place. I loathe it with every fibre of my being. The thought of having to come back in tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that until god knows when, it fills me with rage. 

Yes, rage. Rage at myself for ending up here. Rage at my colleagues for making my working life an unending misery. Rage at everyone in London for making my journey in and out such a pain. 

I must get out. I have to escape. 

And not to another job in social media. I’m sick of it. I loathe it. To writing. Or art. Or to re-train as something.

I don’t have a life anymore. I just…exist. It’s like I move but someone else is moving me. It’s like my life has become everything I ever dreaded it could be. 

Idiotic people. Monotony. Numbers. Spreadsheets. Soulless offices. 

It makes me want to grab the kitchen knife, put myself to to bed and open my own wrists just to make it stop. Just to finally escape from a life that has denied me everything, utterly everything, that I ever dreamed I could have. 

My limbs move but I do not feel them. I eat but the food has no savour. My mind whirls but it has no engagement. My body feels nothing. It is as though another is just moving it through the motions for me and I follow along. 

There is nothing for me to cling to in over to stop myself slipping under the black waters. I can see no reason why I even want to leave my room. I try, desperately, to think of one. But nothing sticks. I just want to be left alone to fade away completely. Lord, I should love nothing more than to fade utterly away and end it all. 

I think of all the things I could have been. Of all the foolish decisions I’ve taken which led me here.

Should I have trained to become an artist?

A game designer?

Should I have followed my first love of acting?

A million possibilities each with a billion outcomes. Each looking infinitely more attractive than where I am now. Because right now isn’t anywhere. Right now is a place of non-life, of a purgatory I’ve somehow spun for myself and only yearn desperately, wholly, totally to escape. 

I was always enchanted by the world as a child. I saw stories and wonder everywhere. 

Now I drift upon it. 

Not even a whole person. 

Merely a reflection of one. 

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