A crack appeared on the glass jar containing my soul. A tiny one, but big enough to scatter the contents. I kept moving, the contents kept spilling. The jar was emptying, fast, and I didn't know what to do. I felt empty. Devoid of all positive emotions. I was tired. I was a shell. An empty shell. Alive, but not really. Not dead either. I took pleasure in none but few things. Take them away from me and I'd be a shell again. A human shell. Dead, but not really. Alive, but not really. A walking contradiction. An undead human. An alive zombie.
But you won't be able to tell that by looking at me. My guard is always up. It is never down now. You can't break through it. I won't let anyone. It's easier to close yourself of to most than to deal with getting hurt again and again.