Alone.

Some people talk their misery into strings of windswept secrets. Others cry; pleading for the numbness that so mercifully accompanies dried tear ducts. And some stifle the entrenched seeds of Anguish with a Niagara of work; The Falls against a seedling, it's no wonder self-denial thrives in the desolate plains of the human mind.

Me? Well, I like to be alone.

Loneliness. It's like standing amidst a sea of people and drawing a blank with each face that mistakingly crosses the boundaries of your periphery. You're convinced that delusion has eluded you but then why the blanks? And yet they continue to batter, assault even, the precarious demarcations of perception and reality. Persistence never was one to give up; a whiff of defeat, swiftly followed by the stench of bittersweet victory. Clarity was never quite this dreadful as it dragged you in, leaving a trail of nail marks clawed into the ground in its wake.

"No!" it's a cry of desperation that you make right on cue, sitting up with cold sweat dripping and bone-straight posture, deceiving the gullible that this is the mere fabrication of a nightmare. Hah. Well then Alice, take a look around you, you're still in Wonderland.

I can't say I didn't try. I guess after all this time angst is still my colour.