It feels like I'm trapped in a room of despair, every door leading me back into the same room, like a loop. There's no way out until I take action myself. I cannot keep waiting with this, or I'll be stuck in this infinitely repeating room of anxiety.

Doing something... Taking action...
I, myself, am going in a loop. Every day I think to myself what I should do. What action should be taken to stop this endless madness? Every single time I reach the exact same conclusion; doing something about this is the least of my ability. I feel powerless in this situation. Numbed to my fate. No say to have.

There's only one thing I can keep doing. Walking away from this situation, keeping myself in a forwards movement, dragging the empty husk my body has become along. I have become starved of human contact. Taken a backseat to the world around me, having become a secondary character in my own motion picture. All I can do is write. Write forever and ever. Writings that take the role of a simplistic rant on Discord, or complicated documents of text written in one of my notebooks. I keep having to purchase more, they fill up like an all-you-can-eat dinner plate as I write meaningless pages of text, my mind endlessly formulating sentences that contain no logic as my pen glides over the page.

I repeat to myself that they're not really gone. Time has proven that fooling myself into believing a lie is the most effective way to deal with things I have no control over.
Overanalyzing every single word I hear I question myself "Where was the sign that things were going wrong?". No, no, there was no sign. I simply cared too hard.
I stay up every single night staring at my phone, either attempting to gather up the courage to turn these demons, these constant reminders of my loneliness into nothing more than a bad dream, or praying just for one second I could feel the warmth of equally... returned... love...
I go out to a cafe four times a week by myself, always bringing my notebook, "never stop writing."
I must've done something really wrong; It's nearly impossible for me to cry now.
I avoid my friends for weeks even though they're the only sense of consistency I have left in my life.
If they really wanted to see me, they'd come; but they won't. Who cares?

Now I'm finding out that I don't need other people to drive away my loneliness.
I just needed to find a way to talk to it.

After using all my free time to complain to myself and use paper to empty my mind, all that's left to do is fall over as I pass out behind my desk, my body forcing me into a deep sleep as I try to stay awake for hours on end, since trying to sleep has no use in the end anyways.
Has the end finally come closer?
Is the end itself yearning to be reached?
Who will give up faster?
The end, or me? we shall see.