At a certain point, you begin to wonder if anyone really cares. 

Does anyone really care about the things I go through, choose to write about, believe and fear? 

Is it simply self indulgence that complells me to write and bears no fruit in its sharing? 

If you consider yourself among the sane, you must ask yourself why you do it all. Why isn’t it enough to hide inside your notebook with the broken spine and address it all alone in your own space and time without bothering the rest of the world at all? 

Who gives a shit if you’re r happy, sad, confused, angry or lost? Who cares about your political views or the cup of tea you made yourself for the first time in months with a hint of cinnamon and a generous helping of honey and how for the next three days you made yourself that exact same cup of tea to fill yourself with some kind of warmth? Who cares that your aunt died? Who cares about the guilt you feel over giving yourself time to heal from your traumas at the expense of your friendships and being unable to ‘be there’ when they needed you? Who cares about how difficult this is for you and how even the act of writing is an act of courage that forces you to come face to face with your demons.

Who  cares about any of it at all?

Who the fuck cares 

about you?