I require a foundation, a house for my being to haunt. I am the missing piece on the game board of clue, desperately searching for the murder weapon while my body lays cold in the garage.
I am frozen in a lake of time, too unsure to move for what will be left behind. I am completely and utterly addicted to the feeling of being a walking writing prompt, I have yet to clearly see. I write meaningless nothingness in flowers for a reason to live. I attempt to love when I am nothing but a hallowed shell.
Thank you for coming to my Ted talk. I’ll take depressed again for five hundreds Alex. What is, how to be happy? The buzzer rings for my answer remains quiet. I am unsure on how to love. I am unsure on who I am, and most importantly how to continue. I am a walking ghost of my former self and it scares me. I am honestly terrified. Is that a good enough answer?