The wind blows in my hair. I’m standing on the edge again.

Physically, it is only a thumbtack; a few small, white ovals rattling around in a bottle; a pair of scissors; a couple days absent from school; one or two days of nothing but the endless shows on TV, the endless scrolling on my phone, the ignored texts which I both send and receive.

Or, in the words of a writer:

It is like I’m drowning in this horrible black ocean of pain that just won’t kill me and I’m sinking, sinking, sinking. The icy cold has paralyzed my limbs, so I can no longer try to swim up to the rapidly dying light above me. The pure darkness has blinded me; I am terrified, frozen, blind, and alone. This ocean is suffocating me, yet out of spite it leaves only enough air for me to live, so I can sink longer, endlessly, until one day I reach the bottom of this Mariana Trench and it kills me.

This edge of which I nearly constantly stand, it is hell.