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I have lost all drive to follow my passions.
I have lost the sight that guided my visions, the everlasting joy of striving for excellence.
Something inside me has died, dried like a raisin left out in the midsummer’s day abandoned to shrivel.
My thoughts have now labored over the lessons instructed to me by men and women who have lived their entire lives desperately seeking to crush the imagination of my insulate creativity.
Days and nights, my mind lingers on about this and that, and of all the things that could have been.
I am no one of grandeur, no one of high acclaim.
I am a weakened soul with a body of a crippled life.
I will never achieve greatness or a special place in your heart.
All that I pretend to strive for will only last among the ashes of the slain.
I have come to a point in this short life where my conscience has become unbearable to withstand.
He cries to me in an everlasting, agonizing wail.
Screaming words of hate, grief, sorrow, sadness, and solitude, these thoughts remain uncontrollable.
Peace, to me, is like a dream.
Peace is something I know I will never find; it is something incomprehensible to my lethargic soul.
Like every sappy story, every Disney movie, and any other fairytale, other people will thrive and flourish among the rotten leaves and shattered pieces of glass that make up this reality.
For I have long accepted my destiny, a future of dreams and empty promises which I possess in my hands.