Dear... Self
The world can be dead, blind and turning its back. It seems lonely to exist so. Being alone wouldn't be so lonesome, as I can be who I am. But I cannot. The world expects me to be someone I am not. Be something I cannot. Do something I do not wish for. And I find myself shackled. Tethered in chains, following as they bid. It's a slow death. It's slower still as the pain draws out, as you try to explain why this cannot be so for me. That this isn't me. But the world is deaf. Ignorant. Blissful. Not for me. It's hell for me. If I had a choice, I'd leave. Leave to a place of my dreams. Earn what I need. And do as I wish. Live as myself. But choices were never as they seem. Are they really a choice when you can only choose the only option? What a cruel world it is. I only take happiness in the fact that I can write these words. It will disappear into an abyss. Existing but perhaps never seen by me. Validating what I feel yet never found by anyone who could recognise. In the end, words are all I have. Even if it is only to myself.