I used to write all the time, each time a new thought came into my mind. I thought I was so special, that no one had ever thought what I was thinking but I would come to know that by writing I was saying the words that people were afraid to acknowledge within their minds. So many times I have failed in my life, and been a disappointment to others and myself but each day I realise I am getting closer to being alone in the world, not under the protection of eyes that I sometimes wonder care about me. It doesn’t matter I guess. I wanted to run away as a child. I still do. But we all think the world is forgiving though we may fail, but now, I’ve seen so much I’m glad that I have a roof over my head, that when the rain pours down, I can watch it from a window and not be drowned under the sky. I’ve seen kindness for the first time, for many times after my mind blossomed, and I wondered how starved I was of it. To me, kindness is fleeting and others don’t realise how treasured they are by open arms. But life has been a series of closed doors, perpetual confusion and clawing to get a state of pure ignorance not in spite but in desperation that I might never emerge again, full. But I’ve spent all my eight lives, sometimes the thoughts I wonder, would they open the floodgates of complete destruction. I have tried to go beyond each day, but a star must spend its light before it burns out. I have utterly outdone myself.