Reaching my third year in college and still remembering the past easily really means that time spares no one or no memory. We could all grow out of our old skins to realize that our new shells are just as hollow as ever, deeming hopeless in life and its travesty. Nevertheless, that's what makes us so human, bleeding out our murderous thoughts and spilling it onto paper. The feeling of wanting to empty yourself to be a coreless vessel again, void of any emotions, unreadable to a living soul. Some of us get there faster with a pen, or even a blade, each of us digging deeper to our own little numb world, to ease the pain of conflict within or to put out the flames that are thirsty for oxygen, until the very wicker within us crumbles to dust. Back to where we started off. Fine as the dirt beneath our feet with no sign of life and no capsule of memory.
