Exist(ed)

Not sure where I was going with this, but I kind of like it. It's a bit sad, but whatever.

Surrounded by whirring bodies, staggering bodies and vibrating souls that don’t fit quite right in the coffin that binds them to a world so hopeless and empty, I would look out over a bleak horizon at the kids my age who would congregate every day after school to have fun.

Through a foggy window I would glance down at the teenagers that lined my street as they filed down the sidewalk like a military lineup of brothers marching out into the climax of their short lives. At least they had each other, and they would die comfortably in the arms of someone who cared about them or who knew they existed.

Who cared about them and knew they existed.

Who cares about me and knows I exist? Who cared about me and knew I existed?

I’m at a point where my point can’t even progress into a line on a long, lazily painted path; my points are lost in a sea of others, more important ones, more relevant, more popular points that point out the pointlessness of my point even being pointed out. I’m unimportant, pointedly.

Who knows I exist[ed]?

I’m not sad, I’m not unhappy, I’m not depressed. I’m fine, I’m content, I’m happy, I’m fantastic.

I have friends, they simply aren’t friendly. False faces, masked marauders molding and manipulating with milky minds and mindless mouths are better off being far away from me. I’d rather be friendless than found with fake friends.

The End

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