How can this possibly be considered living?
If all I ever really do is hide in constant fear.
When the only thing I hear are these voices inside my head.
I'm much like a puppet confined by strings, but is my life really defined by these things. It's like I'm stuck in this world, in which I simply do not belong. A world oh so bleak and monochromatic and full of hatred. This is a place where the scenery is dramatic and the people are melting plastic. A play crumbling apart behind the scenes, a family tumbling down under intense pressure, or a shattered heart stumbling upon the scattered shards.