You might think 18 might draw me closer to find myself, with no witness but the moon, but I came to the world less valiant each day, assembled by desperate bones seeking to meet kind souls through eyes of an inexhaustible hero. My wishful life is losing itself in the cracks &crannies of oblivions from the new century, weakened by temporary happiness and deceiving truths.

But I was savaged by indecent perspectives that lacked of depth &forgot that being transformed is to know that there are no truths &allowing that to be the only truth. The power of depression is stronger than the technicality of triumphs which usually lasts about a minute for me, &my somber had lead me crying infront of a stranger who promises to take my resistance down &make things right for me. As she begged me to layout my puzzled confessions for her to decipher, there wasn't a moment I had trusted her, but as I obeyed with vague intensity, I started cursing out loud in my head.

I was brought up to believe love was the only infallible remedy, but I felt no precise excitement and promise. People claimed that I am my own pain, that I knew nuts about capitalizing circumstances &look beyond sadness, but who do you tell when you feel empty? Cause everyone claimed they are so &i have no returned empathy.

When you dont want to be sad anymore, thats when you try so hard to transform. It was quite difficult in contrast, to swallow all your past down &find people whom you trust to fascinate you, then proceed to trample all over your heart. But i'm not here standing in precaution or to seek refuge in somebody's arms blahblah; i'm a state of danger &all I need is to feel like i'm living. To be run down by smth horrible &survive. To love &be hurt. To be rich &then be poor again. I need a proportionate difference where I could be thrilled. I need help.