I play make-believe nowadays, pretend that I'm not alive. It's the only way I know how not to fear death.

Phantoms burnt prints into his bones, left behind marks and indications to let the world know of the vacant vessel he was abandoned with. A hushed physical being that never spouted a murmur of spirit. A vessel in need of a soul to split.

How strange, a man who could choose to love, but hated instead. Himself most of all. What a pity it was, but that's not what he wanted, right?
He wanted their forgiveness, not their pity. Forgiveness for not being enough. But they thought they saw right through him, they know his ways. And he would agree.
   He's a writer after all, he would say. It's in his nature to dislike himself to the point of ignorance. But when does an act become nature? When does this character he has created become apart of who he is? Or was it that way all along?

From time to time I happen across the things you say, and they make me giggle, they make me blush. Your humor gets me going and later leaves me numb and nauseous, like a slow rising roller coaster ride.
Knowing that none of it is for me brings me down when I'm staying up, and all I can hope for is that it ends someday.

I hope that someday my life will be filled with mistakes, mistakes that I had learned from, mistakes that I would not come to regret. I hope that someday I will be seen as someone who made a mistake and moved on, not as someone who had regrets and got left behind.