I stand as a mere silhouette of my potential for what I could be, trapped by circumstances, errors in judgement, lifeless, aimless thoughts and trivia of a mediocre life. The whispers of dreams remain unspoken, vibrant colors that are without their erstwhile lustrous personality—this is my self-made purgatory, of necessity, of course—but what else do you do when you are alone? And this is my outlet—a canvas, a stage—where I can scream!
I feel singular in my struggles, starts, and restarts; every turn seems to lead to another dead end, another wall of indifference, and yet another villain. One scoundrel after another, there's an endless supply of the wrong end of the stick. Most are in for short cuts and quick money—just greedy bags of bloated skin that have innumerable gaping mouths scrounging for the next victim. In seeking solace, belligerence; in seeking expression, suppression is all I've found; these are the standard wares of the day. But hope refuses to perish, like a stubborn ember that's been pissed on but still wouldn't turn cold.
I'll keep screaming, keep searching, and keep dreaming until I can't.
