How can you ever come to love yourself when you know of the misery and sadness that you’ve spread among others? You look at the despise that they should hold and the disgust that you have within, and then everything else is just part of the palette that never feels colorful to you again.
There was a point when none of that mattered, and my existence was never altered with what they had as their opinion. And I’d thrived through quite well, in a very pleasing prudence.
But everything you do strikes back when silence is no more halted back, and you could no longer keep the voices at bay. The cries knock into the hinges until all walls are broken down and you look at yourself like a stranger. But that isn’t the worst thing, for you recognize that person a little, a little of the shadow you could never push away. And that makes it even more dreadful, for you look at all the horrors that you’ve already traded in.
Do you know how fear strives? It makes you soconscious of your weaknesses**that nothing else pertains to overpower it. And that’s how futile your struggles could become in that moment. And the irony is, you know you deserve that pain that screams into your skin, or the hatred that was always yours to show.
There was a boy, a boy who lived to make others smile, one who dreamed of a world that sparkled with colors and one where smile was more than just a reflex and a mask. But the boy died, more so the ideal that pushed him to find reasons! And the world tripped for a pace he couldn’t live up to, and a face that didn’t go well with their reality.
There is a boy, one who’s scared and confused and broken, one who’s hidden behind a dark alley, since ages have trodden past. And the alley always gets darker, shallower than before. Nobody comes to save him, none that arrive. And he learns to come out, but only partly, only the tainted self.
And this person is no longer brimming with colors that drew the art, rather only a gradient that pours from everything that could seem happy!
Where did you think went wrong? Everywhere! But still, nowhere at all.
There were always reasons, but none good enough. There were excuses, but never entirely trustable. There was silence, but always in the company of loneliness. And that itself becomes the worst kind of attention. You come to falter to take the easy way out.
And so, you start on the road where the boy died. Where I died.
And so, when *I look at the stranger,*I see a corpse, someone that shouldn’t have walked, but tried to run. I see a palette that should’ve never survived.
Where is the end? In a time when the alley is no more than a nightmare and truth is all that’s existent.