My life has been full of imaginative joy and unimaginative sorrow.


My life has been full of unstanderized goals and body consuming laziness.

I tire my soul and mind to successfully put on the mask of artist.

Am I an artist?

No.

I am merely a child chasing a fantasy.

Am I a writer?

Or do i also tire myself to put on the mask of a literary genius?

I'm not sure anymore.



I caress the darkness.

Yet I've always complained about the darkness.

I let myself fall deeper and deeper into the hell they call self pity.

Why is that?

I hate the darkness.

I envy the darkness.

I love the darkness.

It gives me reasons to...

It gives me excuses to...

I hate the darkness.

I live on.

With weary movements and a blank mind.

I'm a mere observer of all that happens.

I've created invisible barriers.

I. myself created loneliness.

I, myself created despair.

I, myself created the only enemy that matters.

I've come to the conclusion that i am undesirable.
I would want to live longer...