‎I still remember how it felt when you placed your hand in mine, in the ballroom under the shinning golden lights of the expensive chandelier. I still remember the feeling of the callouses on your palms

‎They don't quite get it, not yet anyway. How could they exist and be happy? Without knowledge of why they lived, of why they breathed. How could they possibly be glad to receive this wicked gift of existing?

‎I've been writing a lot lately. Maybe it's just the world closing up on me again or maybe it's just me trying to hide away from the world. I can't seem to decide which would be easier, to seek or to hide.