ONE. EIGHTEEN. TWENTY-THREE.
One day,
I feel like I’ll be one of those people that gets the statement:
“I just saw her and she seemed fine. She looked happy”
That’s the art of pretending.
I’m not fine, but I act like it.
So much so you wouldn’t know the difference unless you
stepped
into
my
inner
world.
I’ve veered so far off from the trail of:
“I’m actually doing well.”
My room is a representative for the chaos that lives in my head.
Everything everywhere!
scattered
Disorganized.
An absolute mess.
But, let me cleanup if I’m expecting you so I can hide the parts of that...
like I do this depression
Cramitall in my closet and close the door, so it appears clean
Letting the mess burst out only in
S O L I T U D E .
Time in Isolation scatters out the mess even further.
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