Dear you,
Yes I mean you. Yes I know I don’t know you, but it’s still for you. Now stop arguing and read.

This isn’t something I am writing for any reason. It is something raw, natural, straight from my mind to paper . I want to just talk to you, to let you know who I am without throwing out all those poetic words. I want just to be me.

I have said many times, I am useless when it comes to the English language. I know people who speak and write it as a third language, and can do so with more elegance than me. I could blame it on my education (or lack of) or my so called upbringing, but really is that an excuse for ignorance. I am old enough now that I should be able to improve on what I have learned. I should be able to account for my perversion of the English language. Yet I can not maybe because unlike others I don’t see myself as a writer. I see myself as a vessel. A vessel full of emotion, and passion. It burns within me and I like to project it unto something so it doesn’t hurt anymore. I like to let it pour out in little rivers that I weave into words. That is what I write. While it is not elegant, or beautiful, or even art. It is me the essence of who I am. Without this I would surely have destroyed myself with my feelings.

I am a rather cliched person, all dark and brooding. The heartbroken, the tradegy, yet this is who I am. I can not change this nor would I want to. This does not mean I am happy with who I am. Only that I have accepted it as fact, that nothing can change the things I have seen or done.

To be honest, I think I would rather be alone. I have spent most of my life this way. Don’t get me wrong I do have friends, I have had relationships. Yet nothing has ever felt real since I lost so much of my life. Not only did I lose my parents (which I have went over before) I lost a person I loved. I have never spoken about this. I have wrote some pieces but nothing to actually say this, this is what happened and how it makes me feel. If you didn’t already know I am twenty two (twenty three this year). Yet I am very cynical and jaded. I have lost to much to really ever care for anything else. The person I lost, her name was Emma. She was my strength, my life. I lost more than just her, I lost my heart, my reason for living. The only reason I carry on is because I know she would not want me to quit.

I wont ever fully trust anyone again. It is just to much risk to take. I have very little of my self left to share with others. So I keep my self safe and secure never venturing into peoples life. I will be alone and that’s how I like it.

What do you honestly think when you look at my life, the words that I write. I see myself as being pathetic, as weak. I sometimes worry that writing these things people may think I am looking for attention, or sympathy. I wouldn’t want either. I just want to put these words onto paper. To make my thoughts be real for once. I find a little pleasure in knowing that my words will be read, maybe even enjoyed by those who do so. Though I never expect to be thought of highly. I only want to be understood. I can barely understand myself though.

I wish I could open up my soul and let you look into its depths, because I really need help to understand that which is inside of me. I look at the world in a warped perspective. Imagine everything you see is a perfectly drawn picture without flaws. My vision is like that of a kaleidoscope. I have no bearing on what reality actually is. For me it is a place to suffer and feel detached. I feel almost like a different species from those around me. I feel like an alien wearing a humans skin. I can feel myself behind my eyes, watching and waiting. I can feel the pull to be free. I want to leave this cage. My body is nothing but a prison. It’s so hard to describe or maybe I just can not see how it looks for someone else, but I feel as though at best I am only giving you a glimpse of me.

Am I self obsessed, full of self pity and hate? I wouldn’t know I cant see by my own pain. I cant see very much of the world. I wear a mask normally when I speak to people. I have worn it for so long I don’t know any more which one is the real me. Almost everything you see when I have to interact with others is not me. It is not a whole representation of who I am. Normally it is a mask of smiles I wear to hide my frown and wet eyes. I cry, I cry a lot. I sink deep into my thoughts and replay memories of better days and weep at night into my pillows. I am weak, a self pitying man that needs to take hold of himself. I never will though.
Is it possible to become comfortable in your own pain. To not want to change? If so I think this is what I have become. I don’t want to share my darkest thoughts. I want to keep them caged. Even this, the most truthful I have ever been, is not the whole of what I am.

I have wrote enough, and darkened your thoughts enough. Thank you for reading.
Daniel.