it never seems fair or real and you know you're almost always alone, despite how many people there may be gathered around you. you want to cry so you know you're still human somewhere within the shell of cynicism and realism you've created.
and the childhood illusions with pretty butterfly-wing designs are crushed like a delicate flower and all you can do is watch your life's blood stain the pure white rose.
sometimes life seems more unreal than the movies. like maybe you're the one running around with a camera out there somewhere and nothing's right and nothing's fair.
and you start to wonder if you'd really bleed if a knife cut your skin.
and so off you stumble once again, groping in the darkness trying to find someone like yourself, yet afraid to be you for fear of being accused of mockery when you find one. you know they can never see the real you or know the emotions you know or just quite understand why their words sting you when they do.
you know this but it still hurts that they don't understand.
you find yourself one night sitting in the dark looking at nothing in particular and wanting to cry and wanting to laugh and wanting to be known despite your tendancy to hide in the shadows when the recruiting team comes knocking on your door.
you want to be human.
you want to be alive.
the street is dark and empty. lights are on in every house. you walk amongst them only to find yourself standing alone in the road wanting something that can only be found inside them but you're locked out.
in a sea of bright and colourful lights you find yurself lost as just another face in the crowd. you ran away from everything to find something else, but lost it somewhere along the way.
you find yourself crying over a movie because it was your life so accurately depicted up there but no one will ever know.
you're just another face in the crowd.
and you live.
