What is my story? My cry? I desperately question my own existence within this life. Hampered by the dimensions we can only comprehend for sanity.
Am I insane? Or just a part of a game?
Is it disdain for myself or the constructs I am bound to?
For my hair to be slicked, curled tightly to perfection. Or my face painted a ghostly white, hollow to the touch. It must be the emotions of despair and monotony, intricately designed to my eyes, mouth, and nose. Maybe my things, sculpted to my bodice. Or corset stringent to my air ways.
Must I breathe, or wait to exhale in these confines. A world of black and white. Maybe If I slumber or slouch, or pose, and pout.
There is no difference if nothing is subject to change.
Must I wait on this dead line, or kill my desires of hope?
So I celebrate this ambiguous nature for a meaning.
Maybe there is none.
