Is this what my life has come to? An existence epitomised by clinical disdain for my surroundings. Contextualised by white letters on a black page that no one reads, and wouldn't understand. I will not be remembered for who I am because there are few who know what that looks like.
Letters do not exude character, and characters on a page is what I have been relegated to by myself, and my brain. The anxiety that enthralls my existence coerces my senses into a coma and I am left with the world outside my realm of understanding. I am the lion and the world is filled with people. Their response does not warrant my recoil but theirs is not warranted either.
All I want is the thorn to go away.
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