I Hate My Job
Yeah...
We all had dreams, didn't we? That someday we'd be rich. We'd move out of our parents' house. Buy a car. Maybe buy or rent a nice place.
We'd decorate it. Make it ours. Create a space that felt like home.
But here I am—just empty.
When I'm working, I feel empty. When I'm not working, I still feel empty.
I'm at work right now, my eyes glassy with tears that refuse to fall. Because if they did, someone would ask, What's wrong? And that sucks. Because no one really cares.
They ask just to avoid feeling like bad people. But aren't we all bad people in the end?
Some might argue there's good inside us. Maybe there is. But honestly, not much. Inside, I feel like a hollow void—just mean thoughts swirling around.
I don't want to live. I don't want to die. I just want to exist.
And yet, I don't.
It's like swallowing a bitter pill.
As a kid, I used to be happy. You're probably thinking, Of course you were—you didn't have problems back then. And yeah, you're right. Now? Now I have a mountain of problems.
I don't even know if anyone cares to read this. I'm so down, but I still plaster a smile on my face. I don't want anyone looking at me and asking, What's wrong?
Because in the end, I hate this job.
But do I really hate it? Or do I just hate everything?
I'm so tired. I just want to float in nothingness—to exist without existing.
So, tell me. What is this empty space?
Can we ever truly fill the void in our chest?