Everyone tries their utmost hardest in order to obtain what it is that they are to eventually succumb to in this life. They shall put in all of their efforts until they become resigned to their fate as the success that they have made themselves. However, this cannot be entirely said for everyone. Some wish so hard for the ability to be able to try. Some endlessly hope for some motivation that might one day lead to their overall success; but, despite their greatest desires, they will never have a goal for which to aim. It is a wonder that they even get out of bed anymore; the covers weighing themselves down over their chests as if to protect them from some outside monster, or to hold them back from any potential that they may possess. But there is no outside monster. Only the thing that dwells within their veins and in their minds. That vitriol that incredulously poisons them from within their very skin, their bones, and their most vital of organs. Surely this is just an inherent part of life, that is, until it becomes far more than just a part. For it is not a fraction of a whole; it is something much more. It is the disjointed existence of a self-proclaimed aberration, with eyes wide closed as life is looked upon from a distorted point of view. And as for the paranoia, well, everyone is viewed as being surreptitious and deceitful, with every supposed act of amorality. The ghoulish laughter of those closest, with their smiles taunting as their lips wave mockingly, like hands clapping as they speak. An applause for the poison being spread by their lips.

The End

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