Ripping apart the flesh of air

Everyday feels like I'm walking through Mercury: waiting for the madness to sink deeper into my flesh. I felt like a blind person regaining their sight: everything confusing, everything wrong. My life was mere spectre, unaware of the world.

And I keep tripping up and crashing against the tide. I'm never successful; I can never rest. No matter how hard I try, he always does it better. Everything I do, he achieves as well (and does it better). What have I always done wrong to end on the opposite side of the coin?

I grow tired of this. I grow tired of the emptiness. I grow tired of the struggle.

I just wish there was someone I could talk to.

The official diagnosis

They say I have depression and anxiety. I spend most of my time staring at the ceiling wondering why I keep carrying. It becomes impossible to communicate. Words are harder to form - written across a page they sound foolish and pathetic. Every conversation seems tedious and utterly pointless. What words can be formulated, constructed and discussed to mean anything or express anything at all? The world reflects my mood: it's barren demeanour echoes my hollow mind. In amongst chaos, I feel nothing but the tedium of order. I ache with exhaustion - tears a mere side-effect of a society-induced fear.

My life withers away; interests, hobbies and passions fall like dry petals cascading down towards an empty floor. How can I pick myself up again when my roots have rotted and died?

There seems nothing left. In myself there is only the void; outside, people have drifted away, managing their own lives in exuberance. I stand at window panes, wanting to walk in and join their celebrations, but there is no door and I am invisible.

How do I begin to exist again? How can I pick up the sherds and make the pot whole?