I want to see a brief future.

A glimpse,

a fraction,

or just a reflection

of a future self,

of a name

inscribed on the covers of freshly printed dreams.

I don't understand why you mute my words. I shout. I cry. I explain over and over again. But you do not hear my voice. No, you will not hear my voice. In your eyes, I see with horror the reflection of my mouth shaping the words you want instead of the ones I utter. When I talk to you, the echo of my own thoughts tortures me.

I want to break down the soundproof walls of the room you made for me. But, in front of you my words well up like tears that won't fall. Even if you were to drown in the sea of my words, you will be safe. Even if you are swallowed up by the tempest of my rage, you, will still be safe.

You consume my energy to speak up, so, in front of you I am muted. In surrender, I give you your yes and no and let you knit your favorite piece.

I cry for every soul that is forlorn in this world that is fading. My soul is like glass shards barely put together. It cracks with every painful memory and thought. It cracks at the thoughts about sorrowful beings. I think about them, and about the life they are having. The life we are having. What life is that !? Nomatter how hard I try to find a solution, there seems to be none. I break all over when at the end, I end up believing this is the life we are meant to have.

So I can't put the pieces together. I can't glue the shards.

They fall like tears.

The memory shook me. In retrospection, I saw myself with my friends during those years. I was there and they were there. Yet, I seemed (to myself) so distant. So detached. It hit me how much I kept myself distant from everything during those years. I had built walls, and foolishly waited for people to strike them down. I wanted somebody to extend a hand, but never made it seem that way. I created that safety distance for myself and they respected it.

How foolish! Now I understand why I had feelings of being an outsider among my friends. I am sure they did not intend for it to happen. How did they think of me? Is the picture in my mind the truth? or is it tainted with my later understanding of things?

Sometimes... sometimes I had the unrequited feeling of blaming them for not noticing how depressed I was, for not questioning my mood swings... But I had no right to blame anyone. I still have no right. I can't blame others for not providing help I did not ask for.

Still, why do the years torment me? Why do I still examine every interaction with others? Do they...think of me? Or wonder how I was feeling back then?