Where can I start? Okay, so this is a new font. How about that? Pretty, isn't it? It is the kind of handwriting I would use to write someone a letter, you know, in its glory of parchment and ink.
I have written many poems about my life but this time it feels different, and I can't seem to write about it. I feel unliving, but in a different way. I feel empty and hollow, my thoughts are not manifold or scattered, but merely a lonesome echo in the darkness.
I feel disappointed, tired, but most of all, I feel unhappy. I'm not a perfect person, no one is, and I know I rank below average on the perfectness scale, but it doesn't mean I don't deserve goodness in my life.
When something happens, I take it in and stop caring about it, both inside and outside. When I learn something that has the potential to destroy me, I don't acknowledge it, and simply chuck it in the back of my mind, in a drawer covered with fake cobwebs: a futile attempt at warding myself away. I don't think about it, I don't speak about it, I program myself to say "Oh it's alright, don't worry about it!" to anybody who asks.
And then later, at night, when I am tucked in and ready for a sound sleep, my mind decides to do a little cleaning. It brushes the cobwebs off, wipes the drawer until it shines as bright as any star, and then opens it with feigned shock. Well, well, well, what do we have here? Surely this is something we have NEVER seen before.
Just like that, the "thing" is acknowledged, chucked back into the drawer, and swallowed into nothingness. It happens again day after day after day because it is never considered or let out, and so it becomes perilous day after day after day, until one day the drawer can't hold it in anymore and it breaks, sending all those "things" into my mind.
One day, my mind, though infinitely large, will break too, and then so will I. And that will be the end of me.