I feel trapped in this melancholic world, never getting anywhere and never being "happy". I'm never thought to be unhappy, since I'm always the one seeing the glass half-full for others.
But do I see it that way for myself?
I may say I do, and promote others to do the same; but I don't feel as if I really do. I have a facade for others and for myself. I lie constantly, but no one would even guess that I do. I say I won't, and then I do; for their own sake.
It's the best they don't of the inner turmoil that's plagued my mind and heart for nearly seven years. I'm not supposed to be the one getting help, I'm the one that is supposed to give it. I've devoted most of my life to helping others, whether they know it or not.
My facade is so perfect that not even I doubt it. (But it's hard to see a facade online.)
I could be lying to everyone that reads this, and I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. (I probably wouldn't even know.)
Perhaps I'm confused a little, but at least I don't run about flaunting it and begging for help.
My true self is hidden. It's hidden behind numerous facades. No one shall ever know its secrets, and no one will ever come to realize what they see isn't real.
I will forever be a facade to all I shall ever get the chance to meet.
I've began to slip; misspelling common words and getting hurt over nothing. But I still keep my issues to myself. I feel as if it were meant to be this way. At this rate. I could disguise this as a story. That's all they'll think it to be, anyway. I'll let my friends read, but they'll never know the truth.
Not even the most adept will find out.
Is it perhaps sad that I lead such a life? I don't think so. Not as long as I'm helping others. (Even with the most primitive of issues.)
I feel empty as I write this. I'm not sure what to do. I don't even want to help my dearest of friends overcome a trivial position among his devoted posse.
I should help; I'll stop writing for now.
I feel moderately relieved to be writing this... It would be nice to be able to wash away the pain and confusion with simple things. Alcohol, drugs, suicide... They're always options that would easily take care of my problems... But then others may need my help. Or they may not... It only depends on how much they enjoy my company.
It's rare for me to get so depressed...
Alas, no one shall know of these inner thoughts I've had except for a select few... and even then, it's no more than fiction: enveloping itself around them.
But do I see it that way for myself?
I may say I do, and promote others to do the same; but I don't feel as if I really do. I have a facade for others and for myself. I lie constantly, but no one would even guess that I do. I say I won't, and then I do; for their own sake.
It's the best they don't of the inner turmoil that's plagued my mind and heart for nearly seven years. I'm not supposed to be the one getting help, I'm the one that is supposed to give it. I've devoted most of my life to helping others, whether they know it or not.
My facade is so perfect that not even I doubt it. (But it's hard to see a facade online.)
I could be lying to everyone that reads this, and I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. (I probably wouldn't even know.)
Perhaps I'm confused a little, but at least I don't run about flaunting it and begging for help.
My true self is hidden. It's hidden behind numerous facades. No one shall ever know its secrets, and no one will ever come to realize what they see isn't real.
I will forever be a facade to all I shall ever get the chance to meet.
I've began to slip; misspelling common words and getting hurt over nothing. But I still keep my issues to myself. I feel as if it were meant to be this way. At this rate. I could disguise this as a story. That's all they'll think it to be, anyway. I'll let my friends read, but they'll never know the truth.
Not even the most adept will find out.
Is it perhaps sad that I lead such a life? I don't think so. Not as long as I'm helping others. (Even with the most primitive of issues.)
I feel empty as I write this. I'm not sure what to do. I don't even want to help my dearest of friends overcome a trivial position among his devoted posse.
I should help; I'll stop writing for now.
I feel moderately relieved to be writing this... It would be nice to be able to wash away the pain and confusion with simple things. Alcohol, drugs, suicide... They're always options that would easily take care of my problems... But then others may need my help. Or they may not... It only depends on how much they enjoy my company.
It's rare for me to get so depressed...
Alas, no one shall know of these inner thoughts I've had except for a select few... and even then, it's no more than fiction: enveloping itself around them.
Love, Kanna
P.S. You can't tell poeople are upset over the internet; therefore, you never know to ask if anything is wrong.
P.S.S. An over active imagination provoked me to depress myself.
P.S.S.S. Actually, it pretty much controls my entire being.
P.S.S. An over active imagination provoked me to depress myself.
P.S.S.S. Actually, it pretty much controls my entire being.
