This tale is of sorrow, melancholy and sadness. Is about being tired of being tired of being yourself. Another self. The self reflected by the opaque light into another's eyes. It is sad to be alone, but it is safe. It's good to be alone with yourself sometimes. The matter with sometimes is that it lasts forever. The movement is to go inside. Curl over myself. Close the curtains by now. It is good. Time for uncover old dreams and to just sleep away under warm sheets. The action of looking for relieve outside is sharp. Rejection cuts. Begging for warmity on else's arms hurts. Hurts to know you have to ask. Action opening inside to outside feels like razors cuting the skin of the heart. You get used to the pain because you need them. You give power to them to hurt you. Reflected on outside's eyes is only your meat. It's like swim on a dark sea. If words are necessary, it means they're not caring to go inside you, they prefer to put their hands on your cavity, force it open and examine what you hide preciously with cold lenses to see if your despair fits them. The hands that can warm can burn you. It's safer being alone. Dreams can hurt too, but even if you can be haunted by them you can always shake them away. Others give you what you need when it suits them on the manner that suits them, even if it doesn't match your needs. It can be starving because it's not enough or suffocating because it's too much. Starving for love and attention hurts. But in loneliness there is oblivion in not being obligated to act like others want just to be accepted and receiving your bone, "good girl". There's an ultimate oblivion on the fact that being alone with yourself conducts you faster and faster, on the long ways inside yourself, to insanity. For madness knows different colors and pains and not being aware of anything more in continuous tense seems to be the only dark light on the end of this weak tunnel.