One more spoon of cough syrup now

I can't even write without feeling afraid it might worsen my state anymore. But I'll still try somehow, since it's my only source of sanity. I don't know the meaning of time anymore, it caught up on me like how I knew it would eventually and now I'm lost in the proximities of it. Why do people even ask 'how are you?' anyway? It's nothing more than a standardized rhetorical question. Why has a question consisting such calibre of emotions exist only for formality sake? It just reminds me of a constant in an experiment, experiment being life in this instance. Change is all around yet 'how are you', 'I'm fine thanks' has always been a constant in this diversifying experiment we all know as life. I've come to an understanding that the people I used to think would be there for me, are just part of this 'how are you' bullshit. Every single one of them. We're all just into saving ourselves at the end of the day, or so I've learnt to adapt to that, and unless it's self-beneficial, nobody gives a shit. We are indeed alone when we die, and I feel like I'm already dead. Expectation is the root of all heartache, but it exists inevitably. I don't understand why people still expect things from me, I've stopped expecting anything. And sadly, I can't live up to any expectations at this point in time. I'm at a breaking point, shattering into a million pieces. It's an ongoing process and I wish someone could save me, but I know I need to be alone. I can't be somebody's anybody, when I am nobody. These walls know me the best, my sanctuary it always has been. But these walls are closing in on me, to bury the pain and silence the cries. And there's no escape now, I'm not sure I even want to escape from this place. It's the only place that keeps me safe. All I wanted was an escape from reality, but right now reality is all that's left. I want to scrub the grime and blood off of these walls and tear down the ones I've built, but they just leave me with hands so bruised and tainted. It's too late for anything. The more I dig through all these crevices in my mind, the further down I fall. The less I do, the less I start to care. I tried searching for my soul, but I've realized it ran away a long time ago. Now that I've caught up with what's real, it's nowhere to be found. I just need to stay numbed, until I catch up with it. Maybe someday I will. No matter what I try to wash away, staring back at the mirror right now is a face that I don't recognize. I can't escape this on my own, I don't have the energy to keep digging and burying the demons that should be locked away. I made a mistake by locking them inside of me instead, and I can't find the key now. I can't find anything that keeps me happy anymore, no matter how hard I try. I don't see the beauty in the smallest of things anymore, like how I used to. My only solution is a poison straight to my veins, but I can't die when I'm already dead can I? I can't feel anything more than grieve. I want to run away from this place and recover on my own, but running away isn't a road so plausible when everything seems all too familiar. I wish I could write so much more because I know there is, endless it seems. I don't feel like anything is off my chest. As surface as the roots of a tree we are only able to see, is as surface as this of my emotions. We wish we could rip out the roots of a tree from the underground to see how it functions, but a century old tree is too deep-rooted for that and if we did, it'll be dead. But plants feel no pain since pain has no function in a stationary organism. And perhaps this intense discomfort I feel right now is the transition from being turned into a plant, back to an animal. From a painless, sexless, timeless state, back to sex and pain and time, from death back to life. And I can't cope when all odds are against my metamorphosis to life.