I can't even mold these thoughts into coherency. How do I describe to you the bitter pressure in my chest, the psychosis and disillusionment that seem to form today's unreality?

Don't worry, I'm still me. I participate in conversations, plaster on this smile and look up at you with the same degree of individuality that makes me a unique person. But most of you, o plebeian masses, you can't see the cracking mask that I wear. A little too happy to be real, a little too hyper to be genuine. An alchemical discontent. The painful gasping breaths of air I take make me wish I never had to take another breath because each and every one sounds like the dying whisper or a broken word.

I want to hold, and be held. Someone to just hold me close so I can hear their heartbeat, so I know that I'm still real, that I'm not fading.