Loneliness creeps up like a silent killer. And all I can do is write and smoke my lungs black. Words on paper were always my best friend, my cure and my salvation. Yet this time they aren't helping. The cold chill of nobody being here is suffocating me, killing me slowly from the inside. Soft melody doesn't help and there is no guardian angel to save me from my own destruction. Because, as I have realised, my mind is a dark place and no one has walked down these halls in a long while. Nobody ran to the darkest corner where I hide from my own creation – nobody saves me.
I'm paralysed. Paralysed by my own darkness, my own inability to move, run away from myself. So I stand, in the darkest corner, hoping you would hear my cries for help, you will say it's okay, light a match and let it all burn to the ground until nothing but ruins stand in a place where once was a maze of my own insecurities and fears.
You don't come. You never will. Because maybe you don't know how lonely it feels inside my skin. How hard it is to breathe with someone standing upon your chest telling you it's easy. Breathing. It's the simplest thing in the world – from the first moment to the last we breathe. And I am here breathing air that does not reach my lungs, doesn't give me the satisfaction of saying I am alive.
Because I feel very much dead. Like the air I am breathing would be better spent on another living being. If for no other reason, for the reason that I am not living. I am standing lost and helpless inside my own mind wanting my body to die so I can finally rest.
