dear me.

Dear Me.

I am writing because I do not know what else to do or say, and because in some freak reflection, I don't know who I am.

It may seem like another depressing topic. Emotional maybe, but isn't everything? I don't look in the mirror and say "that's not me", or some story like jolt of knowing, I just feel and perhaps know. I look around me, and all I see are materials, objects, dead things. Obviously they can't be dead, cause they were never alive, but you know the whole mellow drama meaning.

I wonder, if what I write in private is the real me, or what I do. It's really hard to tell. If it is so, and there is such difference, then I think that perhaps, just perhaps, I am really doomed. I could most possibly have trapped myself in a loop of mess and uncertainty, both of which is supported by possible unattended to emotions and past situations. I'm not very sure.

Do I put on a facade? Is this also a facade?

I bet there are many out there who wonder the same thing. Possibly at the same moment in some twisted time theory of some sort. This is just gibberish.

I feel like I stopped in time. Long enough to see the things around me, long enough to be unblinded by the friend I hope to be, and it disgusts me.

Maybe you can picture it this way.

Along the grey pavements, I walk. Dirty, cold and hungry. Not physically. Two girls run up and grab my hands. Hug me with warmth I've never felt. Feed me, with fun I never had before I walked the pavements. They step back as they realise more similarities they had, and run to a swing for two. Not offering, not asking. They are smiling in as they swing, holding hands. Happy. Through the silence of a glass that divides, I can see. The truth in all, they pretend not to see. They turn on either side to greet the others. Gossip. They're still holding hands you see, like parasites to each other.
I walk pass a lovely house, filled with children from all backgrounds. Crosses and holy monuments and ornaments line the house. A warm and inviting fire burn in the fireplace. I stare in awe. The crowd of children gather and welcome me. They bring me about and out. They chatter and laugh. I stand with the masses, but yet I see the bubble that forms around me. Silence. I see them laughing chattering, Smiling and gesturing to me. But they do not see what I can see. A line of twos I walk alone. I cannot cry. They say goodbye and run back to the house of warm fire. I am not invited in.
I see an old man. So generous and loving.  He smiles and gives to every stranger, lending them a shoulder. An ear. But this old man you see, has a wonderful family. And this daughter you see, he knows nothing off. So much for love and generosity
I walk on the grey pavement. Trudging further in hope. But this grey pavement goes too long. I cannot cry.
I walk past an old school. I see a girl jump. The children gasps, cries for help. Not for long, for they move on. And that little girl was forgotten. And in that little girl I see, many little girls to be. For those little children, treat the many, like the little girl forgotten.
This grey pavement is getting colder, harsher. I turn around to see. A glass display before me. I see myself with them, but the bubble around me.
Time slows for me you see, and I can see. I know.
I know.

Isn't it beautiful how words can string together the cores of life?

The times will soon be up for me, be as long as I breathe, I see.