To me, I believe that it is when nobody interacts with you to the point where you start to feel you don't exist, imagine just standing still in the middle of a busy street; vehicles grazing across the asphalt, voices overpowering the ambience, the dull yet not-so distracting hum of the world being as one, Animated. Yet why do you feel like you don't exist? Like your cries are just dead melodies floating in deep space, never to be discerned.. Why? There are millions yet you feel like you are the only one like this. As if you'd be better off or the same when you're in the middle of that street when not a single soul is there, like something else is judging you even when you perceive yourself to be an phantom. A repeated itch that screams incomprehensible phrases that you're no stranger to, like a bat hitting you against a wall, over and over and over again, but you don't know why. Overlooked to such a degree that it's your mind doing it for you, It looms even on the brightest of days slowly reminding why it is there.

The real question is, when will it end?

Not soon enough, this is an addendum to the question; I have thought I'd realise what it means to 'be invisible' but today was amplified like the smell of a four day uneaten moose carcass spread across an open field, It was like the world had taken a piece out of the ninth layer of hell, condensed it to bite-sized pieces and force fed it to me; gut-wrenching at an interminable pace, like a wound that can never be put together again. A wound that seems agape but is ever-so expanding, it is as-if that tear blended me into the environment of ragged and discoloured wool. Yet that moving box with the sole purpose of transit had an unwritten, mutual rule amongst the people scattered about as they chattered stridently. The soul of life itself sneering as I was dis-joined, a sluggish existence and a rotten way to live.

This is the second addendum, way after I thought it was all over, I saw two people from my past life in the box of moving torment, they were shrivelling in joy, and that shook me to my core, not because they've achieved their right to be happy, yet I've not found mine, I don't know how jarring the journey will be and I don't know how far it will span; yet I was never even recognised; it's like I'm a phantom staring people right in the face, even those who hated me, didn't acknowledge me in this life, not even a single peep as if I was reduced to ashes behind my thinly veiled sorrow. I'm begging for release, I need it for those who have inadvertently made me who I am, have reduced me into a slaughtered fairy-tale in their minds. I beg for this to be all over, for something to change, for me to change. If not, sweet release. I pray that it comes swiftly, because I'm lost beyond the point of returning, I struggle to claw my way out of this gloomy pit, the pit I fought so hard to get out enveloped me again, like a cycle. I see that now.

There is a sign, but I don't know from who. My dread as I gazed upon the crack in the ceiling was answered with Windows breaking that night, stuck on the cycle of loading. Like my cycle. The only time I felt free of it was when I was in a dimly lit lift. The walls shaking and the coils dragging me up, the repetitive hum made me feel comfortable, something different, something that wasn't that cycle of emotion, like I almost clawed my way out the pit. But I'm not sure if I was successful.

I wasn't and I predict I wont be for the foreseeable future, I have updated this page many times, yet accidentally discarded most; feeling so empty today for no reason, stomach churningly empty. This whole thing started ironic but ended up here, stuck in rumination, it's like I'm progressing in life by shooting metal with a BB gun, the dink taunting me. Logically you'd just have to move up to a higher caliber but my body doesn't get the memo, it persists and I don't know how to get it to listen. Sometimes I feel cursed with bad luck. Everybody else succeeds with chance yet when I take a turn, it plummets and always fails no matter what, the thing that irks me the most is that I have nobody to speak to, physically incapable to whenever I try, instead resorting to this page. It's pathetic and I don't know whether it's good I have this. I know that i'm no-where near special, yet I want to be; I will find a way for my soul to persist after I've perished, If I can't be content, I will make it my goal to make someone be, even if it's temporary. Maybe that's what I want, maybe that's what I want to happen to me, I have no clue anymore. Right now, I'm just slumped down, too tired of living yet too lazy to end it and I dont know how to fix it, There's a gong going off on repetition that outs me with malice. Why do I have to be like this?

I know, it's the comfort in hope, it doesn't prevail, the pain still seeps from the pores, but it's like a towel you can grit your teeth on so adrenaline makes you focus on something other than irritation.