A book of life in an ocean of suffocation

I’m drowning in the despair of my own mistakes. Gasping for air, knowing that I’m being held under by the weight of my own self image. I can’t see the light. I’m too deep beneath this endless sea of regret. All I feel is anger and sadness. Anger in the form of regret, and sadness in the form of the self image I’ve lost. The words I cried out were all muffled by the water. Writing was the only way I could express myself. So I put everything down on paper; with every chapter, I came closer to the end. The final page is determined by the writer themselves. But when you’re drowning in your own blood, you can no longer finish your own book. The reader will wonder why it ends so abruptly. The writer said nothing; the writer only cried, tears of despair falling from eyes filled with regret. The writer never wanted it to end this way. He only wanted love. A kind of love that no one could give him. The writer knows the chapters that were never put onto paper; the reader only knows the pages. He wanted someone to hold his hand while he was drowning, someone who understood him. But searching for love was hopeless, an endless journey with the knowledge that it would never succeed.