something.
Everyone is in on this big secret and has to change the subject when I walk in the room.
I am alone.
Being different, being yourself, is fabled a door to happiness or 'light.' But it's a dark, lowly place: an empty labyrinth. No one, no matter how much they insist otherwise, has a map. Such is life I suppose.
I'm afraid that I'm wrong. I'm afraid that I don't truly believe it doesn't matter. So I vainly attempt to extract some sort of purpose or goal from it.
I'm afraid this confusion will last forever.
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