My troubles emerge only in the isolated catacomb that is my room. Maybe that's why no one truly knows who I am. Faced with the option of a quite evening alone or a gathering with those I call my friends, I always chose the latter even though I regret missing a night of recollection. I just started looking back at last winter, the winter of my discontent, and realized that I will have to do it all over again. Maybe the names will changes and the dates will blur together, but it will all be the same. I simply cannot avoid those who I fear; those who evoke raw emotion in me. I find them in ordinary places where I expect and extraordinary ones that I never would dream of seeing them in a million years. Quit dabbling with me and say something. At least acknowledge me, because not doing so hurts more then the harshest words a sailor could think of. And to those who know of my situation or at least understand, only you can change this for people are ignorant and thrive in this oblivious undertaking. Though it is not my darkest hour, I would rather not relive the grotesque past.
I think I live in two seasons: the winter and the summer. Hot and cold. I'm not sure I want to be in either of them. I just feel out of sync with my surroundings. The patterns are not appearing like they used to. Bring me out of this monsoon, push away the clouds, and show me the sunshine. Show me what I used to love and loath to do. Right now there is no defiant line between the two. I can hardly remember when I was happy with what I was doing.
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