Even those with the pleasures of inclusion falter at the thought of alienation… A sudden withdrawal from heartache which serves to regress their very souls, a malignant growth that marks fright. Such fright should be thought as selfish, one would say. Selfish because he or she has peers who adoure them with typical mirth and jovial laughter. But ah, they forget that these individuals, too, are human. And as humans they are capable of mourning in isolationism. Because within time they realize that they do not have as many peers; that they as peers will often wander off to be more inclusive with others.

There are some who are met with desolation often; those who deserve inclusion and to seek happiness when it cannot be found. But what of those who appear happy— individuals who, with their facades are pained with the thoughts of not being worthy? Despite laughter, despite happiness—they too, can be unhappy. Yes indeed, it is pathetic for one to think such thoughts if they have what some don’t have. But it’s not whether he or she thinks he or she is worthy or not, rather, whether these melancholy thoughts will end up plaguing their souls. Plaguing them until they realize—‘oh. How pitiful.’

Certainly I am reserved when it comes to expressing idle thoughts of selfishness. Is it an act of selflessness which leads to these very actions? I am accosted by the idea of burdening many; it’s a maddening regime we do not seek to live with and yet here we are, a mad as a dime.

I mourn in fright. I scream for the mountains to move, for the seas to part so the heartache is gone. So these burdensome feelings of isolationism begone! Alas, I am no deity. Trees mourn and mountains are steady. Oceans shift and waves ricochet.

And so what have I left? To stay in the dark and continue regressing until I am no more? What happened to the happy little girl, one queries? You’ve got everything I do not have! Do I really, or does it appear as so?

Thoughts like these come and go… But they eat at your very soul once they become apparent. Eat it until you are not capable of formulating correct verses to spout and charm the masses; until you’ve wrought a facade, a mask. A close resemblance of fakeness, to hide. To fear. In your own isolation.

Without Wax,

Nisa.

Funny how life works, though. You are there to aid others and yet they are never there to return the favour.

The morbidity of having to conform to inarticulate means of communication can really… really, take a toll on an individual. To keep a facade up for so long creates a sense of vulnerability internally.