We pop prescription pills and chase them with spirits and hard liquor, desperate each time for the anaesthetic to set in quicker.

We employ a barrage of avoidance techniques like finding a new bed in which to sleep every day of the week, praying even for ten minutes to find the peace that we seek.

We show we don’t care, though we do. Act like feelings aren’t there, though they are. Hoping that pseudo-nonchalance will eventually become our real mind state, though it won’t.

We believe we’re enlightened and unique. Demigods favoured by the divine, we claw onto the narrative of martyrdom in a bid to justify the pain that tortures our minds.

We are lost, forever waiting to be found. Relentlessly pursuing this notion that finding the one will make you whole, when it won’t.

We are not two souls fated to meet by destiny. You are just you, and I am just me.