They keep moulding me just like them, and i mould too, but there’s this thing within me that keeps me from becoming like them. Outwardly, i’m like them, i act just like they want me to. Inside, it’s a messy chaos with a little beauty in a few corners with only a wanting to live, and to die, and to experience everything life keeps bringing… to experience everything except what these people call a ‘living’. This repetitiveness is again mind numbing. I can’t go to parties and pretend i’m enjoying it, yet i have to and so i do. Let’s see, how much i can bend.


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