At least one person will understand the weight of your words, since they need to hear an echo of their own thoughts in your voice.
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Love was always wrong as people were looking for a projection of themselves in every relationship. They want to be understood, although They need to be completed. The things One despises the most about themselves are protrude in every failed connection. The sorrowful pen tattoos on wavering leaves, the shadows of a broken mind and the essence of a hardened heart. The older One gets, the more the stone throbbing in their chest burdens the impenetrable abyss. Your voice it the faint mirage of peace in a massively populated desert. As I walk by them, I hear their loudly contentment; their laughs were noises that led me to Kikazaru. You want to stand tall, but social performances make your neck bend; You cannot look into their eyes without whacking your self-consciousness. They offered you two picks: being the sole sane person in a psych ward or being the crazy (wo)man who escaped it.
No One wants to play the game of life; their every thought can be the source of an imminent death. They live only because they stayed too much. I fear that regret lingers after expiration. Can you blame the one who sought a voice that does not exist in a world where everyone is blindfolded?
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The journey wasn’t that great, but it allowed me to externalize enough to breathe for another ephemeral day.
