All that I have managed to accomplish so far feels meaningless. As if I am stuck in a void of perpetual dissatisfaction. Disappointing the people around me when I succumb to my demons that whisper sweet melancholic thoughts of solitude. I always wonder how I manage to get myself tangled up in so many social webs, when in truth all I ever wanted was to be alone and write. Somehow, in an odd twist of fate, I am now here, in the middle of a brewing storm, with people looking to me for answers of shelter. How can I save other people, when I can't even save myself? And more importantly, how can I keep pretending to love them, when I don't even know what love is?
