𝓟𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓫𝓵𝔂 𝓟𝓸𝓮𝓽𝓻𝔂

Incapable of Love

A/n: This is just me depressed rambling so you've been warned.
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I am incapable of love. No matter how much I appreciate someone, or care for their well being.

I. Cannot. Love.

Anyone.

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It isn't the fault of the people who are close to me—or as close as they can get for that matter—I don't even think it's my own fault.

I'm trying my hardest to find out why, and how to fix it, but everywhere I turn it's just a dead end.

At this point, I don't even know if I'm human.

There must be something wrong with me, this is more than an Imbalance of chemicals in my brain, something is wrong with me.

I didn't know why I kept on buying things, small trinkets, trying desperately to attach some sort of sentimental value to them, but now I understand.

Objects don't care what you are like. They don't mind if you're completely screwed up for who knows what reasons. It doesn't matter to them if you don't love them, so I don't need to stress over them. I can just like them, without having to worry about how they feel about me.

I'm comfortable around objects. Somehow, I feel at home with them.

Maybe I am an object.

What is the definition of object?

a material thing that can be seen and touched. Hmm. Maybe not. How would I define myself if not human in a dictionary?

Gray: Something that appears human physically, but cannot feel emotion the same way as humans do. Somewhat mechanical, yet wants to be human.

Sometimes, Gray will try to act human. Not to fool others, but to fool itself. Gray intensely desires to be human, but just isn't. It doesn't know why.

That sounds about right. I don't identify with the pronouns "it", I just didn't want to say my gender even though some of you might already know.

Something isn't right. I just don't know how to fix it if I can't find the root of the problem.