Read to escape.
Write to escape.
Whichever it is, does it matter when I don't even know what I'm trying to escape?
Or maybe I do, and I don't want to admit it.
I hate myself like this, but the version of me that I love doesn't exist. It never did.
I feel like I'm walking through mud, sinking with each step I take while a swarm of bees fly above my head, debating whether to attack or not. My eyes are blurry and I don't have it in me to make them focus. I have nothing to focus on. People walk by as blobs and I'm just stuck here unable to move. Why can't any of them see me? Why won't they reach out? With each person that walks by without a single glance, I feel the fight in me give out.
Read to escape.
Write to find people that relate.
It doesn't matter since nobody seems to care anyway.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets
Short StorySnippets from books I'll never write because I know I can't do them justice.
