It took me years to realize that they couldn't see what I could eventhough we all had eyes.
Our minds were quiet different because to them art was always beautiful,nature was always happy,and reality was enough.
But to me and me alone art was the part of the soul the artist couldn't place in words the emotions that were too strong and the grief was to great.
Nature wasn't always happy it mourned for a season then healed in the next it was constantly reminding me everything could get hurt that those wilting flowers, made it cry, and the garbage In its seas made it cry,the animals murdered made it and me being broken made it cry.
And to me and me alone reality would never be enough.
Because I saw everything in a utterly different shade rather then plain white and black it was all colorful,painful and tormented with grief and so I dreamt of worlds different and unique.
That was how I survived but what crushed me more was how people around me called me a failure but just yet.
I didn't know all my colours would soon fade too because all those around me had killed my ownself and my very own mind had become beastly and dark.
