CANDLE IN THE WIND
I don’t think I’m going to be okay for a long time and as much as I try to tell myself that it was all my fault, and errors heal through time, perhaps I am just scarred for life. I cannot see the point in anything anymore except the fact that I’m living for the sake of living. Writing, it’s the only solace I have left but no one around really seems to understand how dark my world is, that my message to my only horror would be misinterpreted and reread as a regenerate plight of my time. But we’re living in this world, and everyday I’m moving but not at the same speed as everyone else because my mind holds me back and I hide in my mind. I float above the oceans, but I might as well sink, might as well swim with the fishes. And I still laugh, still cry, whenever I can, but my emotions seems so abrupt and rare, are they even real and am I even real. Because I feel dead almost all of the time, even when I wake up, even when I hear violins in my mind. There’s no denying something invisible is hounding me, something after my blood or my soul. And last Summer I was afraid I was going to end it all, but I’m here now and it’s Autumn. Time for dead things to die. This cycle. I am fragile, a candle in the wind. When the truth is, I’m too sad to cry anymore. So I just breathe sadness.