Deep within my soul is this immense sadness. A sadness that which I cannot shake off. It seems I shall always carry this melancholy due to circumstance.

We all carry the burden and struggle of circumstance. But I… I cannot withstand this propensity to be whoever I am.

Why should I pretend to be pleasant when deeply insulted? Why do I not break rapport immediately and fuck the people whom which I call ‘friends’.

Somewhere down the line, one ought ask himself how to break circumstances. For me, there seems to be no ‘how’, but an endless list of wherefores. I don’t deserve such a life nor do I desire the expectations expected of me.

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The world I believed of during childhood, and perhaps even adolescence, is a lie. Happiness and truth has a heavy price tag. It requires sacrifice and the relinquishing of attachment; attachment towards family and friends.

In the meantime, I am contented to live within this collapsing fairytale of lies. And with hope to die, I shall be crushed by the debris of broken dreams. The pain shall meet its quietus in due course.

It hurts that you pay lesser attention to me. I feel pathetic. I guess, to you, we aren’t even friends. Perhaps it is due to your polite nature that you even mention me.

I wish, somehow, we never had met. You were always an angel to me. Not knowing you would no doubt be a huge loss on my part, but the pain and paranoia of being lonesome is too much to bear.

Maybe you knew. And so you lied to uphold the illusion I always knew to be an illusion.

I dread the day I’ll see you. Yet, I dread the day I won’t see you again.