Sometimes I think that no one realizes what it means to be sorry. I'm sorry for this, I'm sorry for that - I'm sorry eternally but that changes nothing except the beating of my heart (steady, steady, dropinrhythm, nothing and no one can hear me scream) and the words that spin through my head, an endless whirlwind of danger, a carousel of lost souls.
An image in my mind I can't get rid of no matter how hard I try. Desolate woods, dark and fervently terrifying, black murky waters and dead things growing. A child, crouched by the lake. And no one can hear him screaming.
There's really no reason for me to ever have felt this way - but we have all heard the argument that states precisely why I feel that I am a pitiful human being. Nothing terribly dreadful has ever happened and yet here I sit, sensitive lover of shiney sharp things. Overly-sensitive, overly-critical - paranoia reigns. Lies? Truth? LIES.
Always lies.
Brutal, bitter lies - and I can never see who is the one that is telling them.