(dark fiction)

My soul. A dark, empty pit of sad, boring nothingness is coated in a pathetic attempt of becoming something-- layers of lies and hollow ambition. Bit by bit I put the lies together around the shadow of my shattered personality painting the void with borrowed colours to fit with the golden souls around that freed a blinding glow. but the colours ,infected by my hollow darkness, peel and fall exposing the abyss for these forged pieces were never mine to begin with.

I mold my existence to shape it into something interesting, something worthy of attention and joy--of life, but the shape doesn't last, it crumbles, drowning in the void, for it's darkness refuses to let happyness breathe. There is no replacement, no substitute for the golden joy I seek to capture in pure selfish desperation. It leaves me with the same numbing void I attempted to paint over. To create a painting were hopes and dreams and life was something I finally possessed.

Oh how I longed to be like them. Like the children, couples, and friends with bright, blinding smiles and echoing, cheerful laughter I passed whalst pathetically treading along the burning pavement. Or even the ones that danced alone through the singing breeze, glowing brighter than bright with richly decorated headphones or a melodic hum. However that is just one of those hopes I hold onto. The tighter I hold, the more I hurt. it is just not meant to be...

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_****_for I am but a puzzle created from fragments of foreign personalities in hopes of creating my own bright glow.

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