I don't get what the big fuss is about.
No, I really don't.

You know what? I really don't mind.
No, I really don't.

Because in reality, I don't think I know what you're talking about. I don't know whether I want to be here. I don't know where's the proof of my existence. I don't know anything.
“… What am I, really? I guess I don't really understand happiness, although I think it's what I pursue."

I am fiction, but I am no fake.
I have a past, but I'm not history.
I am only heartless because many have claimed a piece of my puzzle.
I am alive, but barely. I am insecure. I am scared.

Something is dying. Something in there hurts. It fucking hurts.
The worst of it all, is that I don't which painkiller to hit.

I need directions. I need a light. I need deliverance.
I want out!
Let my past be a fading mirage in this eternal swirl of colors and emotions instead of a suffocating void pressed upon my existence!

And if it must be, then mould me.
Make me dance. Make me breathe.

Make me be that breath of fresh air.
She cried like hell that day. And every day after that.

Hot, salty tears flowed down her cheeks like they have a will of their own as she whispered and murmured silent prayers to gods she feared, rather than believed. She shook as she came to me for salvation, for hope, for warmth, and for a happy ending. Yet, I was smoke and despair. And I could only speak of luminous dreams, sing to her pretty words and dream with her hollow hopes of flying.

She asked me peculiar questions of promises and lies; of forever and whether it would ever be enough. She inquired me curiously about ideals, perfection and life and considered unlimited possibilities of a mathematical and formulaic world. I looked into those eyes of a beguiling expression and it was a shallowness I perceived in her. It was a naïve belief that she could make the light shine if she tried; that she could shape the world into her crib.

Her presence pressed into my hapless forms and desperately drank my empty words of motivation. As her eyes shone with bare honesty, foolish bravery and open insecurity, I envied her vitality, her youth and her innocence. Through her nightly tears, she retained more sanity and spoke clarity ever more than I had been. She spoke strongly of her promises and of cliché motivation. The immaturity of her soul, untainted by temptations of the flesh and mind; was so incandescent, condemned the very presence of my accursed existence.

Every night, I cloud my eyes as I declared the next day as an allusion, an illusion. I watched, through the veil of my damnation, as she held onto the frail strands of humanity tightly. As I held her and dried her tears, I saw my past altered by her ingenuous convictions, by her radiance. And I knew it would be that same radiance that would move my earth and shake all my lies to the ground.

As I watched, I savagely and selfishly wonder, when would she realize that the price of sanity and humanity was too high for us to pay. For promises were never meant to be kept and dreams were always meant to be broken.