Five

                                    

                                          
edited (10.23.16)
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What was the point? It was a small, general question that Tristan asked himself after every little movement he made, after every little thought he had.
    What was the point of making friends that you wouldn't talk to in ten years?
    What was the point of sitting down and watching television when you could be doing something productive?
    What was the point of dating someone if you made them constantly worry about you?
    What was the point of life if you couldn't be happy?
    Tristan punched his wall and screamed out of frustration. He was beyond frustrated with himself and his thoughts. There was a point to life, he just hadn't found it yet. Or, maybe he had found it, and it ended up meaning nothing to him.
    At this point, Tristan didn't know what to do. Everything pissed him off.
    What was the point of making friends that you wouldn't talk to in ten years?
    People didn't understand Tristan and his thought process. Hell, he didn't even understand it. These friends that he had made talked shit about him behind his back, and sometimes to his face. An outsider wouldn't call these people his friends, but he had no one else.
    What was the point of sitting down and watching television when you could be doing something productive?
    Tristan laughed when he thought of this one. He was always watching television. The shows with drug addicts as main characters were his favorites because he could relate to them. He could watch some television series over and over and over, and he couldn't get enough. Sometimes, the shows triggered his drug habit and made it worse. He didn't care - he never would. Although television was a big part of his life, Tristan had to stop sitting on his ass and wasting his time. He needed to make something of his life so he wouldn't be just another lazy and useless waste of a person.
    What was the point of dating someone if you made them constantly worry about you?
    This topic made Tristan want to punch his wall again. When he was drunk a few nights ago, his partner told him how they were always worried about Tristan overdosing on drugs or killing himself. Tristan had laughed. That wasn't an issue, and it would never be an issue. If he had enough drugs to overdose, that would mean he had enough to get him by daily. At this point, he didn't even have enough powder in his bag to coat the bottom.
    What was the point of life if you couldn't be happy?
    This time, Tristan punched the wall again. He knew his parents would come up because of the noises he was making, so he huffed and punched the wall as hard as he could. He'd never stop, not until someone made him stop. Tristan grabbed handfuls of his hair and tugged. There was no point to life if you couldn't be happy. There was absolutely no point. Why was he not dead yet? Why was he still here? People were holding him down, pinning his hands and his legs to this Earth and he was finished with it. He was so fucking done. Everyone wanted him to be miserable, everyone wanted him to stay alive on this goddamn planet but he was just a zombie at this point. Worms for brains, only getting out of bed in the morning for cigarettes, alcohol, and his pills. No one understood what they were doing to Tristan. They were holding him back.