A worryingly wide percentage of our kind on earth are utter fools. It’s always ‘If you do it I’ll do it.’ ‘Well they aren’t so I’m not either.’ Or, ‘I have to be just like them.’ You have individuality— an absolute god given gift, so stop reducing yourself as low as to others’ standards and fearing standing out. It only creates ingrained weakness, a wound so deep that one day you will finally realise it will ultimately never heal again.
Humanity is blessed by the arts. Drama, painting, drawing, music, writing— all at our disposal to escape life, to force everything to the back of our minds and only focus on what our eyes and ears receive, even if only for a few minutes.
If I were to introduce myself I would say I am Arla, and my surname is Young. Though, if I were to introduce my soul, I would say I am Vinn, and I have no surname.
Why do I find more comfort in the pen in my hand and the tear stained paper before my eyes than real people? Real people with mouths to comfort, and empathy they choose not to use. Why is it that inanimate objects have far more sympathy than them? Why does ink hold my hand, but a person won’t?