I used to be afraid of the dark.
I used to fear loneliness and hate solitude.
I used to mourn the lost feelings and long for the emptiness to just die. For me to just. Die.
I used to dream about not having nightmares, I used to frown upon those who knew happiness by default. I used to believe that nothing could be worse, nothing could feel more cold, no one could ever imagine waking up to the nothingness. The emotionless pit from whenst my anger did lie, to me. It told me where to find it, but I wasn't interested. The fortress of solitude was what I called my one emotion left. Desperation was its face, and I used to make believe that someday my prince would come. But even then I knew, that if he did I would never trust him, I worried that my emotions never might return, that even if my shiny prince, on the white noble steed, swung in to save me, I would never even know ground from ash.
I dreamed a dream of time gone by, but in reality, time crawls when life is on its belly. Love is poison, but too tasty to ignore. Too tough to like, but too soft to hate.
In a world of inescapable pain and agony, a service that love both gladly provides and goes against.
Love. Is it's own assassin.
Life is blah. But death is so intriguing, yet too definitive and sure. Death is safe. Life is only worth living, because it isn't.
