Suddenly, everything is surreal.
Issues of the mind are real.
As real as you are.
But you think they only exist in one's mind.
What if I told you that they existed in me?
That forced disinterest is real?
That falling into an empty pit, within me, is real?
That what I write about it true?
That I wish I could cry instead of losing my ability to feel?
Would you look down upon me too?