Those empty walls don't fill me, even if I'm empty too. I've been pushed to death, dizzing, floating, trying to jump without a ground where my feet can touch on. The worst place to die seems to be inside the ones that you love, the worst way is dying alive. Alone. Inside your own shell - the same shell you once buildt to protect you from all of those souls. You made it.
People don't talk while you're near. They don't look at your eyes. All of them don't even try to touch you, you've always been on fire. They don't care (you're not suppose to, also). You made it.
You're viewing everything from outside, like in a painting. Your family goes on without you. Your friends, too. While you were trying to follow the script they wrote since you're born, life happened. You completed the life schedule they wanted, but it wasn't enough. They rather share the love with the baby who never reached any point at the schedule, never earned anything by itself.
This is life.
You try to follow the rules. You're suddenly fucked up.
You try to not follow. You have nothing to loose.
At the end
And the other side of the bridge
Ends up in the same place