I am a person of no importance. Someone with memories, and ghosts, surely, but are they real if no one else feels them? What if I never become famous? A person who has too much to say but no where to put it. I’m supposed to find that place, but how can I start anything if I mean nothing? A darling dear with no intentions, good or bad. A box of cards and pictures for no one, a collection of tape with no purpose. Dear no one. Gossip. With nothing to live for we find good in the wrong places, bad in the right. With nothing to live for I did the same, until I ran into the arms of someone I thought cared about me. Whispering in my ear, holding me closer. But I soon learned it was just desperation, not love. But I think love is desperation, in a way. But the worst part is that not all of us need the attention that we desperately get. Half of the people are just users, and the others hold boxes alike to mine.
And, in the end, this is the beginning. No matter how much I desire more than this,
illud est quod est. It is what it is. And this, through writing, may one day heal. Even if no one ever reads this.