It feels like I've been away for too long.
It hasn't even been that long but yet life goes on, and so do you.
It hurts. It hurts knowing that things we used to do, now seem insignificant because time has altered them.

Picking at every memory we ever had that made me happy, and making them about my insecurities is exhausting.
Are they insecurities? Or is it just another proof of what society wants us to do?
Questioning ourselves to the point where we even question if anybody else will ever love us?

one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
over     and     over...
black. yellow. red. orange. green. blue.
six colors
eight ends
twenty - four flat lines
twenty - four crosses
Countless Memories.

Sitting in a dark room:
At peace.
With every single lifeless and lively thing around me. But more importantly with myself.
Staring outside my window.
A window I have gone to countless times but somehow right now it's different. A good kind of different. That one perspective every depressed and suicidal kid you wish has had. So they could see how beautiful life could be. So they could feel the greatness within their soul and revive their fire.