It's Real

I don't know what's it's called.  Is it depression?  Stress?  Anxiety?

Let me tell you, it's real.

It's not an exaggerated expression when people tell you they can not sleep at night because of the voices inside their heads.  It's not only the head who's hurting but also the heart.

They have the database as big and as modern as a newly-released computer.  They can dig up their unwanted past and contemplate about it over and over.  Or they can make their own prediction of the future, though most of it wasn't filled with sugar and rainbow.

They are filled with fear; of being left alone, of being deserted, of being forgotten.  And it's so scary.

They realized that all of the actions and what they do that seemed fine for other people is just a mere mask.  A mask that has its own expiry date.

The mask rots and fell down the ground.  And we couldn't bear to see ourselves in the mirror.

Believe me, those things written on medical reports or on the news is real.  The invincible sword, it's stabbing us and shrinking deeper as the day went on.

Believe me, it's real.  I know it, and I have it.