(no subject)
would you read a book like this:
To write this with no hopes of a happy ending, kills me, and I’ve lived a lie to this point. I’ve shed my fair share of masks. I’ve faked enough apologies to destroy my city. I’ve bled enough confessions, shed enough masks to this point. So, I will tell you honestly that I am nothing.
I write this with no expectation of greatness, only that you might understand what it is to be alone, and that someday these will be more than just words. Though I die I will not be forgotten. Every day to this point has been a prerequisite to living without hope.