I do not have romance, I do not have wealth, I do not have power, and I do not have influence. I love nothing and keep myself alive because I promised some people to live. I have no other purpose than to suffer. I have no other purpose than to endure hardship. If there is nothing but pain in my life, what kind of life is that? If those who had the choice to choose death or bondage, they chose death. I am bonded to the pain inside that obstructs me from loving or caring about anything. I know how I would choose leaving here, how it is possible, how it is so easy. Yet I still live. I still live in the same house I was raised in, and I have not even moved ever away from this place to be safe. I have no home. I have no family. They say my family is alive, but they are dead. I cannot see them except my psychopath father whom I am eternally bonded to until I work hard enough to get out of his house. What will kill me first? My desire for rest, or climbing that immeasurable mountain? Either way I will still enter into a brutish end. I feel nothing. Nothing but pain. Nothing but suffering. The ones who mock and laugh at me do so because they know they will meet the same fate. Shall I laugh too? Shall I laugh along with them at the fool who believes he is worthy of love; of living; of acceptance? You cannot respect a clown until he seeks your life. Only then you see the darkness in his neopolitan paint covered heart.
