Four White walls

Everyday I wake up and it's the same routine over and over again. I convince myself to get up so I can embark on a new day but they all blur together subconciously and sneak up on me when I look in the mirror. I hate this feeling and even though God has granted me another day, I can already tell what kind of day my patience will have, unyeilding to stress and rearing from all four corners of the globe, this pressure.
I walk around life in a four white walled room. People say I'm narrow minded and stubborn, some label it depression because normal people don't convince themselves to live on a regular basis. But I'd like to think of myself as pathetic most of the time and agree that my small violin is out of tune.
Many people that I love have surrounded me with support and compliments. They seem to be written small in black on my white walls. They are there none the less but in blood red colors shriek my imperfections, streaming huge letters of doubt, anxiety, and inconsistency, anger and failure while I depleat myself into non-exhistence. Sometimes on my days off I lay in bed wondering what it would be like to just melt, or become the bed sheets. That perhaps it would be amazing in the summer breeze on the clothes line at night. Or maybe if I just disappeared, stopped breathing and began to fly, watching everything from far, would I see things more clearly?
No matter how much I want to leave this world, or those demeaning things rapture my mind, nothing compares to being trapped in this box day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute. My soul is impatient and my hands are a little late, my eyes and mind imagine, invision that one swift slice, that one trigger, that one rope, or maybe just a last breath, one more second wasted. I just want to be with Him, in paradise and I am falling short on waiting.