Dear World,

It's I, one of your many children better known as another story. You know, the one that you adore and love so much that you continuously reward with the many ups and downs that come with life--yeah that one. I have a question for you: why the anxiety? Because of you, life is filled with so much uneasiness that logically makes no sense; yet I'm allowing them a foothold and losing control over my depth in this reality.

The best way I know how to explain it would be a tiny being propped up on my chest; sitting there with innocent poise but malice in its eyes as he slowly adds more force to his influence. He tries hard to tantalize me into giving over, to gaze at his fractured pocket-watch stained with rusty cogs; a weapon designed for the dreamers so they might visualize time slipping through their fingers. It's made worse when living in a world full of hollow minds empty for all except ignorance and the blissful calls conformity provides.

Does some chemical imbalance merit a specific treatment, or a label with flickering neon lights screaming "ostracize me"? Why is everyone so rash in their judgment, yet slow to understand the person trapped beneath bleeds red all the same? Through it all, I think what the lesson to be had is this: the fluttering butterflies in the pit of my stomach may dart faster, soak up more constricted air only to break free from their prison and prove that difference makes us stronger. Though it might seem my pleas go unheard some tired souls hear familiar with the battle; just facing a different mask.


Sincerely,
One of your many stories