Its been so long since I breathed.

I've felt so horrible, I've been treating people like crap simply because I've been stressed. I don't know how to deal with such things, and as always, I'm running away.

Why do I run? Where are my morals, really? Its like I'm nobody, a horrible spineless midget with no stand of her owns. I look at others, at their strengths, their unwavering stand, and I feel so pathetic. A piece of slime, that falls into the mould. No wonder I don't know myself.

Its been ages since I've wrote, and doing so at a snail's pace now. Its like I'm losing myself this year, that I'm changing so rapidly that I can't control what I'm doing. I'm fighting for a cause that is ridiculed. And what do I do? I hide myself in words and oil-pastels.

I drew a picture lately with my oil pastels. Its of a girl, a cartoon of sorts. Big eyes, small mouth. I did all I could, I chose the colours carefully, the posture, the background, shading. I made it so she sort of melted into the background, stuck there, like a piece of art. I made her eyes unnaturally wide, her lips pursed, her skin gaunt. I wanted her to be keeping a secret behind those exposed whites, to be struggling to keep everything inside, yet somehow glaring in the way she looked, but wasn't really looking at anything in particular.

I wanted her to look like me.

But she didn't. She looked emotionless, cold, a statue carved for the purpose of decoration. She looks deformed, crooked and bland. She looks like a picture, not a person. And I stared at her, every detail, and hoped that somehow I could find a way to give her life, to breath air into her lungs, and make that weak smile a real weak smile. But there wasn't anything. There was nothing I could find.

I don't know why I'm talking about this anyway. Its just a form of abstracity that only readers of a novel would empathise with. Its absurd, how my mind seems to work now. Slowly, and painfully, I am disappearing, and becoming something I don't know. How I speak, how I act, has changed. And for what? Have I lost my individuality for others? Have I traded who I was for a skin that's already broken in?

I don't believe in trying to be different for the sake of fitting into the trend of rebellion, artistes and anti-socialites. But to avoid that trend seems to be pushing me into a whole new direction. I've had so many declarations of strength, power, determination, and for what? What had I been fighting for? Acceptance? Love?

I'm not fighting anymore. No.