I wish. I've wished...

That the day would end. And I wouldn't have to see the next day come. For the world to stop and freeze in place. Slow down just enough for me to not feel like I was being dragged along the ground, skin tearing and blood spilling, with it's sickening iron scent.

But I wasn't enough of a fool to believe that would actually happen. There wasn't much mercy left in the world for the broken and the damned. 

Sometimes, I wished that everything would shatter on the spot. Simply so for those who were barely able to live due to society. They could at least find a place for themselves. It was ridiculously short-sighted, that's obvious. Ignoring so many problems which would occur if society collapsed.

Didn't change how much I wanted it. Craved it with every inch of my soul. 

My eyes were always blankly staring at the world outside. I used to have so many questions, so many ideas, killed off.

When you find reasons to regret even trying to speak to someone, and the cost becomes more than excruciating by the second; I would also think you would find that peace in silence would be preferable for your own overall wellbeing.

Circumstantially, I see many disagreeing with me. My, at least you're considering what I'm saying. Thank you. There are such few, who take the time to care. Now, take a deeper look. Those who agree aren't pathetic or miserable. They're those who got burnt, and living on with those scars. I would acknowledge them. 

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The difference between your perspective and mine, might be severity. This isn't simply feeling awful from malice, this is putting more strain on someone who should more often than not, collapse out of exhaustion for their own good.

At least being unconscious brought some much needed, decent rest.

My apologies. I seem to have been swept up by my thoughts. I am Silhouette. As you can tell, that is an interesting pseudonym.

If this has reached the eyes and ears of anyone else, then I wish to thank them, and the one who has recorded my life.

For me, and this is solely my opinion. My god is a writer. Someone who has made the world a story, but from a certain point, let us write our own lives out, in this world of ours.

I wish to think that as much choice as they have, writing the words of my life and many others, they have much less influence to affect this world then they might think. 

As one may put it, a writer can write by becoming madly enveloped in a world which does not exist, but for them, might as well. 

Due to observations, and notes I've written down, it's more likely that the writer is trying to interpret the world he has created, but as ephemeral as our world is, can only see possibilites. Endless of them, but their heart guides them to the ones that mean the most to them, and feel the most right.

I know how silly all of this sounds. How ridiculous and contrite. But it's at least interesting if not somewhat soothing.

My writer must be quite a miserable person to be writing me. I can't help but think of how their personal hell must compare, if their life has a deep connection to mine.

I wonder if they sleep well at night, have people who love them and care for them, and can look at tomorrow with hope.

And I doubt it. But at least, I as a written work, and possibly a reflection of their emotions will say;

I'm here. And I wish you well. For whatever that's worth.

I wish tomorrow didn't feel so meaningless.