Reason.

I’ve always thought that people enter your life for a reason.

That they wouldn’t exist in your immediate surroundings if they weren’t meant to teach you some kind of epic life lesson, as though each person tells a new tale, and weaves themselves a chapter that makes the entire story beautiful.

The good, the bad, and the ugly; it’s all meant to be.

And that’s why it hurts, because agony is merely a treasury trove of memories and happiness is fleeting but the people who cause both will forever mark your heart.

They remain inscribed inside the crevices of your heart, forever tiny little letters that cause you to skip a beat every time they are said out loud.

People are merely a passageway to your ultimate exhilaration, to a happiness that’s forever and a settling that you can only dream about.

Yet we give them too much importance. We forget that everyone is indispensable, a sort of trading system; in with the old, out with the new. And just as you recycle yourself, new people fit like puzzle pieces and leave you moments you can never forget.

They do not make you. You must remember that what they do or say to you, hardly makes you who you are. It’s never who you are.

You make yourself. Nobody else can take that away, and nobody else should, it is a right that has been burnt into your soul. Never let anyone take away who you are.

Stop destroying yourself to make everyone happy, it’ll never bring anything but despair.

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Accepted.


I’m tired. The world simply is no place for someone that seems to dip into the lows more than highs, that seems to wreck herself and salvage the pieces all in one night.

The world is too strong for people like us, who wither and wilt at the first sign of danger. We’re not ready for what’s about to be thrown at us. I doubt we’d ever be ready.

There is little worth I can bring to my own life. I am stewing in a pot of my own misery, waiting for a day to come by where I’ll get saved.

Yet, I fail to realise that I am my own saving grace, that no knight in shining armour can ever exist and that the world is a deep vat of agony but if I stir long enough, it may change into acceptance.

We’re not always going to be this way, you know?

I think the thicker skin we build, the harder it becomes for people to break our walls. We are nothing but a wall of opinions that we have created by establishing ourselves as slaves to the needs of others.

And I confine myself to these sordid ideals, refusing to own my heart and wear it on my sleeve. Devoid of any emotion.

Haphazard thoughts are the only constant I have left. Maybe, I can understand myself if I think less, talk slower, walk quicker. If I do what they want, I become what they want. I become what I want.

Accepted.

I’m tired. The world is no place for someone who refuses to fit into a version of perfection.

The world is no place for me.