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My mind is full of demons and they’re having a party of their own. I’m on the outside looking in, full of the guilt and the the panic and the anger that came with the disenchantment of realising I must have taken the wrong path, because I ended up like everyone else. Oh, I must have taken the travelled path and now I can’t fight my demons, because the demons seem to be me. Is this what hell is? Am I the very definition of it?

I’ve always wanted to roll life between my fingers and laugh at its nonsense, but I could never put on that mask of confidence and sophistication I could so clearly see when I closed my eyes. The forever intangible truth of my heart seemed an illusion more than a potential at times. 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 gain strength from it.

Of course, 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. I went to sleep dreaming of the moment I’ll bake 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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