I am writing into the shallow waters of the unknown in which I have created for myself, n one will see this, yet I so wish that they could. It is conflicting emotions that battle my fickle head and heart. I am unsure of what lies among the minds of those who might, in some future past that has already begun, read this. What will they think, what do you? Mind you, that's a silly question because you is me. I am a warped mirror of myself who lies in some proud and grim fascination of what my blackened and ink poisoned heart has become. I am no longer a creature of this earth, of this universe, I am an inhabitant of a host body that should be mine. I have no reason to complain, I am not ugly, I am not peculiar looking, I am not particularly outstanding, and in some twisted melancholic state, I realise that this will never be enough, I will never be enough. I realize that now because no one can change smoke back into what it was, what it has became is a literal shadow of itself with no purpose except to provide some nostalgia for a memory waiting to happen.
I feel hollow, superficial, it comes forth from my mouth like a stream of words that belong to a book without its real author taking credit for it.
I say things that are the picture of half-witted, deficient and puerile.I am foolish. My mind is in a separate space with my life. They are not my words, I do not want them to be, yet they are and will stay that way. I cannot change what is not mine, although I try with a futile effort, although it results in is disgust with myself, disgust in how I could be so ignorant, so stupid so devoid of words or feelings that my personality is like glass but one that will not break.
I feel I am trapped, I am offered slices of the world, and I take them, I appreciate them, but they will not be enough, nobody will be enough and it saddens me to think that I have become this sort of lonely cynic, I want to be this lonely Cynic, I am given friends and companions and acquaintances and handed a peppered lot of inspirational creatures with high morals and values. I am one of them, but I cannot be one of them.
I am not like them. I am a mixture of impossibilities. You, who discovered this verse of morbid account will have probably given up on the life of me now, you wonder who I am, but nobody can tell you, I cannot tell you, it would exit my mouth wrongly, that is maybe a bit harsh on myself so I will give you a window of who I am, was, is, who will I be? Or will I cease to? I favor the former. We are all so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, we are superficial creatures who stupidly hold themselves in a sickeningly high regard, I include myself in this segment, we laugh at those more unfortunate than ourselves, but most of those "unfortunates" are rare creatures, they will always be better than us and we are so narrow minded as not to see it, we create such pitfalls for them while we climb the stairwell, it is disappointing of us. I am ashamed to be part of such an intelligent race but filled with such grating vices and lack of virtues. We all think ourselves rare creatures, but are just the narrator for someone Else's fantasies, we are the waterways that never carry us home. We are ignorant of what the power of the powerless holds.
I am sat on a couch tangled in withered wires and listening to blood on the snow while writing what I cannot say, I am enveloped within the uncomfortable folds of an envy green school uniform, I am fifteen. I have  a sharp but somehow soft face, I am of average height, I am extremely pale with dark blonde hair and large dark blue eyes, I am sat upon a coach with my ever-loving and inspiring mother and my stubborn and naive younger sister, some rubbish is playing on the Technicolor magic that is a television screen, it is 5:57pm on Thursday the 17th of May, is that far away from you? Or is it very close, I am English and look and act it. I have aspirations to be an actress, that will cease to be though I fool myself each day telling myself that I am different so it will happen. It will not. I cannot lie to myself that much, although hope is useful. Results are often different.
But enough of what I was, I am not speaking to you from the beyond I hope, I am too cowardly to risk the failure, but I am not too cowardly to put myself into situations that could have it occur.
This is an entirely self-centered, selfish post. I wish I could write beauty, I cannot. I am facade of it. It will remain that way.
I am smoke, I am alone. I like it alone. I think.
Attachments are overrated, life is.
I am not going to throw it away, but when looking upon it in retrospect, all it is, is a blur of money, education, quarrels, facades of pain, with the regular dose of a beloved, but most of us are too foolish to really distinguish a true beloved, we are too eager to get on with our lives, but happens next? Children, then retirement then death. It seems a pointless and grey world to me that I have to follow and live out upon.
I cannot change it, I am insignificant.
I have run out of words to say, my mind a blank piece of paper
Love,
Bright Star