I walk with the air of the defeated. My smile isn't real, but convincing. I act ntlike myself...







because it's so much easier.







Things have changed.

Where we belong, in this Earth, in this wretched world, things have changed. Where we belong, in our minds, in our souls, things have changed. It's almost too much to bear for all of us. Change was never a good thing.

I could branch into so many atmospheres with this, prode and poke at the various change-related aspects of history and science. Even geography. But that's not my minds' case. I wish to delve into the aspects of phycology. Into the soul of you. Soul of me. Look at you, you're changed. Perhaps you're more chanegd than you ever deemed possible. Your soul might cry out against the agony of suffocation. A pillow over its head for as long as you live, for your real, true self can never die. It's you, flowing as close inside you as your veins, your nerves do. Its what you were born with.

It could be your friend, your enemy, or your frenemy. You were born with limbs, with eyes, with feet, but how many times to you condemn them? And change your eyes, limbs, feet? ....perhaps, you even do that.

Some people hate themselves with a sickening passion. And they - perhaps, you- sit on their souls. They weave a mask and place them on their faces. And they live to the rest of their lives, surviving on triumph. One small, yet everlasting triumph. Everlasting, because the soul you muffled is crying out forever more, and those cries are ignored. Ignorance, that's the victory. Even if you will die.

Now I ask you, what good is it to be the person you want? It's so limited! Limited to but a few roads to go down. You are a half blind person! There is no hope for knowing yourself- for the yourself you now act as is nothing but a mask, an escape! It's the equivalent of creating a character to put in a fictitous storyine. It takes years to know that person, and still, until you find a true soul, it will take work and sweat and tears to support the mask. Masks have no soul. They...

... they destroy.

Yourself- your self- it takes so much less time. The work is nonexistant. To lower yourself from the clouds, into an embodyment that will accept you, is not work. It's strain. It's pride, and pride is something that does not define you. Oh, how I oathe the emotion. It makes everything worse.


All it does is make my life a living H.ell. It obliterates my chances of survival to the happiest extent, and gives me false prizes in return. It gives me something like cocaine, distracting me and chaining my head to the side so I will never see what it's doing. And what it's keeping me from.

It's doing that to you, too. If you're like me.

You can't be the best, no matter what mask you put on. You can't ever be anyone than yourself. You might say, But I am being someone I'm not. And it's working out fine. Are you happy? ...Or, I suppose it's a fine thing, when you hate yourself, and you don't even invest the time to examine yourself. Or fix yourself.

Be who you are. It's cliche, I know- because no one is doing it! How many times does everyone have to say it for you- for them- for anyone to understand?! We're just going to keep saying it.

I don't want to lose my best friend to the realms of the da.mned and deceased, because she's too afraid to show her own colors. To touch base with reality. And here... here, I don't want the same thing to happen to you. A stranger. Because the pain is universal.