Unfinished thoughts

The days all blur together with no real sense of purpose, whether I'm working or not it makes no difference. Why am I here? I didn't ask for this. I'm tired of existing so much. If we could all just die out as a species it'd be so fine. I'm getting really sick of a thing called "time".

Shhh, calm down, it'll be okay, we're all going to die soon one day anyways.
Hush, hush, we're on our way down now. There's nothing anyone can do and it'll be the end soon.

I'm bored. It's not so much the suffering as the lack of feeling anything beautiful. The magic in this life has died. There's nothing left but cold, stark reality and I think that I must see it better than most. Everything is temporary. What's the point of trying to save money, save lives, save anything when it all ends so quickly?

I'm waiting, still just waiting. I always have been. I was born waiting. I never wanted to be here. The moment I could think I knew I wasn't meant for this. What's the point of resting if you don't get any sleep? You teeter on the edge of breaking, yet it gives you enough to feebly wander on. Is it normal to be tired all the time? I can't remember a restful night of sleep in many years. I always wake up feeling remorse or regret, or maybe even just disappointment. Why am I still here? Again? Today? It's another day? Really? Why?

I open my eyes, sigh and pull myself out of bed. It's the hardest thing in the world to do. Maybe if I actually slept soundly and didn't wake up every hour it might feel okay.
Still, I open my eyes, no light streaming down, and if it had it wouldn't be beautiful anyways, it'd just keep me awake, laying there somewhere between sleep and consciousness, not dead but dreaming.