I feel as though I'm trapped again. And maybe I have just caught my leg on a rope, or piece of plastic and in my panic it has become attached and unmoving. As I myself cannot seem to move. And sometimes in my eternal solitude and panic, it likes to remind me. It reminds me of how I can never be great, how I am forever trapped in mediocrity suffering from solitude and a breaking fortitude. Thousands of drafts of nothing worth publishing, paintings too ugly to belong. It begs me and begs me to give up. It tries to destroy my heart. Telling me that it is better off in the hands of a great scientist or philosopher. That the world would be better without my existence.
But no one seems to realise. That my heart will not be destroyed. That the words said don't define me. And life will move on.
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