In the end, all that there will be left are these written words, until they, too, are destroyed, because nobody will ever care.
So I ask you, what is the point in anything that we do? What are we doing, each day, each minute or second that passes, but trying to find a way to justify our very existence in a world that never seemed cut out to cope with our kind?
What is the point in anything at all? And these feelings... what were they for if they could never be shared with others? And this mind that always thought too much - what was it for? Do you know?
I don't know...
I tried so hard, for so many years, to belong somewhere, some place... I tried so hard, for so many years, to find sense in this world, in myself... I am still as clueless as a newborn. Still as breakable as a crystal vase, and still able to catch rainbows of light in the reflection of my shattered pieces...
Next time you break a glass or mirror, do let the sunshine in, for perhaps you will catch a glimpse of what it felt to be me.
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