Morbid blog post is morbid

It's getting harder. I admit it, okay? It's just getting more difficult to wake up, almost as difficult as getting to sleep. Dreams; if I had the capacity to remember such surreal and pleasurable moments I don't think I would have insomnia. But when they happen, they torture me by flitting away from my memory, the refraction of light on a single dot of glitter that you just can't find to get off your face, but it's always there in your periphery and can't be shaken. I'm trying to write a fanfic right now for Manifest, and all it's doing is rubbing my face in unattainable fantasy, shouting with tangible intensity, "This isn't your life, Phe! It never will be! You're alone! You create and then observe our happiness, our certain moments of ecstasy and contentment, but you can't have them for your own!" Writing about my favourite characters and their relationships is a cake with savoury, runny icing. I pour a bit of myself into the fiction, and it's the characters that get to live through it. I've been a bystander all my life, so whilst I'm used to it, I still know what I'm missing; call it instinctive racial memory if not perceptive observation. I've been the third wheel--worse, the fifth wheel--in so many instances that I may never need to get my tyres checked ever again. I feel both rotten and a little happy, the latter because many of these relationships I've witness I also helped to blossom. I'm just worried that I get more enjoyment out of seeing others happy, smiling, and caring, not because bringing joy and love to others is a wondrous thing, but because the dreadful belief that it won't happen for me is always weighing me down. A wracking, dry cough that continually lingers. Melodrama? I'm a Literature student, and worse, a roleplayer, so I have no idea if I am blowing things way out of proportion or if I have stumbled upon the clarity of mind that allows me to realise fact. Feeble attempts I have made, but that seems to be all I've got. How do you improve when you're already trying your hardest? If you're crippled with fear and have managed to somehow convince yourself that you'll always be alone? Happiness exists for some; I've seen it. But for all? I'm always going to be that friendly but pensive and strange guy that people will either know or vaguely remember, the guy who was always by himself, apart from the others.
...Wow, if what I just wrote doesn't sound like petty, self-aggrandised martyrdom bullshit, then perhaps I don't deserve to be shot...
I'm sorry for being so gloomy; I'm usually sorry for a lot of things, even if it's just a meaningless phrase intended to placate or relieve others. Everyone else is of paramount importance. I've always known and firmly believed that, and hopefully will retain this opinion. Alas, I haven't been able to act on this belief enough; so many friends who I haven't been able to comfort as a result of distance or time. And worse, what about the people who don't even let me inside, who are struggling whilst I am too densely ignorant to be of any use (no matter how small) to give solace or hugging warmth to? I have found that this hurts approximately just as much as the loneliness issue.

I try my hardest to be honest and accepting (if not open >_>), but there are so many billions of extraneous variables that we all encounter every minute of every damned day that sometimes I conclude that retreating to the beloved characters of fiction is worth the wounds such an act inflicts.

/emo post of abandoned hope