Hell is oneself, the other figures in it merely projections

If I could use one word to describe how I feel, it's tired.

My body is tired. My mind is tired. My soul is tired. I just want to relax in the gentle tide, ebbing and flowing, stationary and peaceful, to partake in the numbing waters of the Lethe, but alas, a la Jay Gatsby, these waters only ceaselessly bear me back into the past.

I'm sick of it. I'm spent. I'm in pain. and I'm just sick of being hurt. All I want is a future, a new future, bright and beautiful and clear. Behold, I make all things new. Even me?

I don't know how to forgive. And I don't know how to let go. I hate too many people. Too many people - especially guys - have hurt me too many times in ways too big for me to even begin to process in my current state of mind. I'm angry, unbearably angry. And yet I feel like God is trying to use me in some way, trying to offer me something, but I'm like a grubby child with a fistful of candy that's bad for me, refusing to give it up. I'd rather fester in my own little black pool bitterness than aspire to anything better. It's easier, anyway.

I'm battered, I'm broken, and I'm alone. How easy it is to embark on a philosophical foray into solipsism... there's just me. And if there's just me in this massive, unfriendly universe, what difference does anything make?

Why should I bother loving people? They never love me back.

Whatever. I don't give a crap anymore. I'm done loving people. There's no point.