I would sometimes think of things that would never happen to me and the possible outcomes of it—like if I died, how would the people I've known all my life would be and feel? I would also think about how I would feel if that happened to me. I'm not empathetic—just hollow. Very hollow like there's something in my throat, a big lump in my throat that no matter how many times I try to gulp it down—it never moves or goes away like its some type of disease I can feel and have.

Is there a unknown feeling that no one has yet? Maybe I have it—that empty, sonder for anyone I have never known, people that I only met once in a place and never met again. Life is like a manuscript and it seems like I have lacuna. I wish I'd feel the feeling of eleutheromania, but I know that would be too sisyphean. I can't help but stare at the ceiling or anything I can glance the first time—then I'd zone out for a long time, maybe a few hours until I knock back into my senses and completely forget what I was thinking about for such a long time.

There's a feeling that I have—a feeling that maybe I only have. A hollow, empty feeling even when I talk to my classmates, friends, relatives and such. I'd smile—that's why my smile lines are evidence of that. I'd act all happy and stupid but the truth is, I'm not—I'm heavily optimistic and I don't know why but I can't help but hide under that mask that I'd stare and practice in front of a mirror. Then there's that ringing in both of my ears, a sharp piercing ring—and a soft, hoarse whisper that tells me ways to end my misery like its the most normal and calmest conversation ever—except it is, I've had it since god knows when and I don't question it. I'd even blast my ears with full volume with my headphones and that wouldn't stop either, just blocks out the ringing and increases the whispers of the girl. I would even drown both of my ears in the bathtub which fills most of my body with lagoon while staring at the light hanging from the ceiling—the girls voice is soothing, yet her words are so harmful and harmless to me. This sounds like a denouement—maybe it is, this sounds idyllc. I can't even feel melancholy. Just this empty, hollow feeling like I can't feel anything at all. I feel something in my cracked mask, it hurts but it doesn't hurt at all like its some type of passive.

Everything feels so boring to me, like serenpidity is ignoring me. I feel like the definition of acedia and anhedonia, maybe it proofs how empathic writing this feels. Like I really feel something but not feel something one at a time—I don't have struggles, I don't have anything I'm diagnosed with. I'm not depressed—I feel like an entity pretending to be a human and forgot its memories, maybe for too long to the point I'm itching to release myself and feel eleutheromania. I feel both safe as something and unsafe in another part of myself, I look at myself for a bit too long and start muttering things the girl in my ear whispers to me—I'd sit down on a bench or anything I can sit on and fixate my gaze on something that wont move and just stay there—blank thoughts without feeling bored while my ears ring and the girl in my ear whispers to me like I'm some sacred prayer.
Maybe it's weird—maybe a whole lot weird, I'd stare at something without getting bored while my stomach inhales and exhales like its trying to sneeze without have a nose and a mouth. I have a itching sensation on my throat and on the back of my throat but whenever I scratch it—it never seems to fade or the itching doesn't feel like itching, just there. I don't have any struggles at all, maybe I have symptons of depression—maybe thats what's been gnawing at me for years, depression. I would stare at my poreclain, clear and untouched arms and think of it with tiger scars, except it isn't made from tigers—its made from me. I am the tiger and I am doing it to my own arms like its a daily schedule—like a version of never-ending sunday church. I wouldn't cry and regret what I've done, instead I would stare at it for hours as I feel the sensation of stinging. It's not addicting, and it's not fun. My eyes look like a gaze, specifically a desperate and hopeless one seeming to be a moth to flashlight thinking it's fire. My eyes are always half-lidded, tired with eye bags—but I never sleep too late and never too early, just average 8:50 pm.
I would never feel anything at all, faking my persona both online and in real life like I'm a spy being wanted on the run—except I'm not a spy, not wanted on the run, just doing it for a reason I've already forgotten when I was six. Constantly trying to feel anything to feel like a human, the only thing that atleast sparked a flicker of a faint light of humanity in me is drawing, when I go to school I draw during breaks or fillered lessons. At home I'd sit down and start drawing on my phone I've had since I was 8 and draw for hours—maybe even fixated on a drawing for days until my phone forces me out of Ibis Paint. Writing is also my favorite hobby—write, write, write until my fingers would start to make a stinging, aching sensation like they're limping. I would write endless paragraphs and endless sentences to fuel my passion in writing and I would even ask my parents if there would be any grammar mistakes on it during the middle of the night, day, and evening—maybe afternoon if that counts.
Who am I? I'm Saxis. I am a girl and I go by she/her pronouns and I like to write. If you're interested in more info about me then press this for more info.