Time after time, I feel myself fading away into nothingness. I see it; my presence sliding away, unnoticed, to break apart in shadows.
And no one spares even a glance.
So, what do I do?
I write because it gives me purpose. When I write, I matter. When my reality starts to crumble, I escape into words. I create people, plots, places, just so they can comfort me when no one else will.
Am I so easy to forget? Am I really as insignificant as I believe?