You know why? Because writing is an art. In the depths of it's entity, it's an art form, a tangible tool of freedom on our planet.
Shakespeare will have known this - but, excuse my digression.
I've come into my own being again, of which I had previously left for a less optimistic *other*. You may wonder where I may have been the past little while.
Well, the answer to your question is this:
I was in the same wonderland Alice went back to after the Red Queen fucked everything up, treading carelessly through rough forestry in damp misty weathers.
It wasn't the best feeling in the world, it wasn't the worst either; however, it was just bad enough to make me not care about much at all - with the exception of certain people (like mom).
She was the only reason for everything.
No one else mattered; my best friends could find other best friends, and at the end of the day, they'd all have each other to cope...
I did realize how minuscule this life was to the grand scheme of the universe, but I chose to look at it the wrong way. Instead of thinking of positive ways to utilize my realization, I opted for depression. And I know why it happened. What I experienced is what I've heard women experience when they get a divorce - yupp.
At this point, everything I want to let myself endure will go in a box, an impenetrable steel box that will only be opened under the most synchronistic circumstances.
It's not to say that I'll never get to open it, I may not, but that's why everything is in the box. Eventually, I'll forget where the box is - actually, I probably won't, but hiding it will help with the suppression.
