I will crumple it up and throw it away tomorrow.
I believe in God. It doesn't hurt. Formless. Abstract. Omnipotent. All encompassing.
I make up witty statements to defend my spirituality. Suit up the words and make them look good. After a certain point of time, everything seems lyrical. Even this. Everyone listens to you then. Everyone but you.
I don't tell her. I don't intrude. I let it go. The reflections. The Kohl. The songs.
Afraid for her more than I am afraid for me.
I need people around me. I need people around me to prove to them that I am a loner. I sit alone. Apart. I lose in my thoughts. I brood. I sulk. And I glance at them. And I hope that they glance at me. And then I look away.
I blatantly ask for pity. Blatantly. I wallow in pain. I enjoy doing that.
God is pitiful because he looks down upon my inexcusably meager existence and decides to let me survive.
I am, in essence, docile. I am, in essence, an escapist. I am, in essence, only human.
I am, in essence, surviving.