There is a pain in me I can't pin point, it's not even pain in it's common form, it's more like a numb misery, which in itself is a contradiction which just goes to show my inability to fully divulge this feeling in words, it seems beyond that, beyond the realms which words can expand to, beyond the ballad of constancies and vowels, beyond the fine tuning of the best authors. Yet it's unexplainable absence from the written words does not reduces its pungent possession of me, it almost deepens its hollowing grip as it rips from me the knowledge: it's just me!

The pain's possession of me is equally unwritten as in invades peace that seems neutral. Just when that quite hush descends pone my life that says this is average, this is a future, it takes hold and whispers the lies of my own thoughts. The cold callous words that I have no future, and that that lays ahead is just more pot holes for me to fall in to, every lasting darkness, yet free falling with out hitting the unbending world. Is it just a new kind of freedom? The intoxicating rush of being outside of convention, the inability to retain the fa?ade of finding any of the small pleasures that life places outside of my wanton grasp.

Freedom! It is always said that it comes with a price. Is my price to high, or have I already paid it. With the exclusion of myself from everyday reactions, with my cold worthless touch does the earth reject me to this so called freedom as compensation for the joy I will never feel at it's endless beauty and inspired artists that create a worth model of the human race. Or does it give me the freedom to live beyond the cruel interactions of these mindless creatures that stumble from experience to experience without more than basic instincts to lead ever towards complacency in the rues of happiness.

Do all of these thoughts and feeling make me me, or are they the infection lump that is cutting off the gasping half grown version of me. It's been so long since a thought, feeling or action was imparted upon the world from my lifeless form that I sometimes wonder if my life is in fact a preliminary state to death. I have no illusions that my premature death would bring about revelations of epic proportions, in fact I only wish for peace, a little bit of the hope Pandora slammed inside the box. I would fade away into the black abyss that calls so often into my aching ears. It would pass in the thought's of those around me as a mysterious ache that soon ebb's away to leave a life with less looking back to see me linger behind. But for the shock would my passing be noticed.

My lifeless form strewn upon a blooming crimson pattern, that memory forever etched within a soul. Am I ready to impart this vulnerable scene in to an unknowing world, to finally show them I am not the strong unyielding one, I do not posses the power to cope with this shadow of a life. Or will I chose to remain outwardly strong, unwilling to let them take from me the one thing I can be sure is my own, not wanting their guilty attention, their unwavering willingness to take responsibility for a pain that I cherish to my self as a mother does a small infant. I may hold it like a dirty secret, tight against myself, but I still hold it in sweaty clutching hands that grasp it like a fine memorial of dying race.