All the things I am not, the things I think I should be wouldn’t hurt if this world I lived in didn’t pretend to be good. The world is a mask and nothing I can get from this world will ever give me comfort. The room is always too big to write in. My thoughts are so closed in they only open to one part of the world at a time. You need so many keys to get deep within. The truth sits beside my insecurities buried under so much pain and time. I’ve given up trying and even thinking it might be worthwhile to be brave. Every day fighting an army of demons without a single weapon. I become afraid of the night when it’s the loneliest. I thought I could always rely on myself and I suppose, handle the unpredictabilities of a double life. Which part of me is bigger, the bad or good? Everything I want has died in another world and this culture is suicidal. You never dread the day when freedom becomes loneliness, it just only happens.