I feel like a ghost thrown into the land of the living by mistake, forced to stumble along through a lifetime, even though there’s nothing for me in this world. I’m a shadow compared to others people’s ambitions and drive and desires, a creature that wants solely to curl upon herself and puzzle upon the world’s mysteries and dream, rather than make a stance and change it. After all, if it’s not my world, why should I bother with it? Having to do its tasks is anathema to my nature. Having to surface from within myself to deal with the needs of a body, of a self that isn’t me slowly kills me. It’s like the very air outside is poisonous to me. Poisonous with too much reality, the stench of mundaneness and the clogging thickness of boredom and meaninglessness. It makes me choke and gag. Makes me feel weak and feeble. I want to stay inside, in my own world, where I truly belong, dancing beneath a sky where the stars are made of flowers and the flowers burn with the fire of starlight. Where the sky is black and the ground in white and there are no shades of grey in between, only sharp colours. Where meaninglessness has meaning and chaos becomes order, simply because that’s how I perceive it. Where a body is not just a suit of meat and bones, but a fluid extension of my core, something I can change and decorate at will. Where I don’t have to be a shade of a human and can be just that, a shade within my own right, living peacefully in the world of the dead, where I was always meant to be.