The numerous mistakes plaguing the works that I complete, the utter dismay and dissatisfaction with each task, the sheer idiocity that accompany the errors seem to collapse in one day. The tiredness, the anguish and uselessness converge and I wonder if I am better off in that small wooden box again. All these point to my incapability to deal with reality and to be the worker they perceive me to be. Disappointment arises as words too, fail to express my thoughts, befuddled with the surging emotions of conflict, as the fatness, idiocity, and ugliness find a focal point. I have no worth.
Left to my own, left to my own.
I am so tired. I am alone.
After all.
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