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I’ve always wanted to roll life between my fingers and laugh at its nonsense, but struggled to put on the mask of confidence and sophistication it required. The forever intangible truth of my heart seemed an illusion more than potential at times.

Deep beneath lies, half truths and twisted logic there was always this second hand hope pulling me back. But every time I tried to reborn as my favourite self I made love to margins and sideways and turned out a little darker.

And my self-esteem vacuum kept writing poetry on my chest’s walls and sketching on my veins’ interiors and sucking the life out of me every time I closed my eyes to regain a little strength.

I went to sleep dreaming of baking the first birthday cake for a new me, but when I opened my mouth it was always my demons spoon-feeding me leftovers from their celebrations of my fears.

Escapism. Escapism. You don’t stop thinking about it, do you? Everywhere you turn there’s walls and chains and does and don’ts – and the whys, hunting and creeping you out. You wish you could escape them and live out of your imagination, reinventing the past and intensifying the present.

How are you? You are perfect, aren’t you? As if wide awake in a tomb, with all the magic and the horror of life leaking and dripping out. You’re fine. You’re just not happy, are you?

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