Echos of the heart, and my soul.

I'm afraid to admit that I'm hollow within. There is no substance, no beauty, no blood. Nothing, but a hollow and empty shell. With emotions, swirling in eternal spirals.

There I go once more, writing in cryptic and abstract descriptions. Impossible it may seems, for me to be straightforward and truthful. Everything that exude from my being, are merely echos of my feelings and thoughts. Censored, Filtered, and then dissipated.

Facade reflecting another facade, within it all, if you search deep enough. There's nothing. Perhaps the truth is I stopped living when I was 10, there after, everything turned into a prepared script for an anonymous play. A play with a million acts, and only 1 audience watching. I can't find meaning with my lies and denials.

But somehow, I can't lay myself bare for public scrutiny. Call me a coward, but I refuse to be vulnerable. I can't trust my heart with myself, much less with everyone else.

ps: I'm ill today, apparently acute food poisoning. But I think it's a body's reaction to my aching and somehow wounded soul. Perhaps, over the weekend, some old memories evoked some suppressed understanding of the past. An understanding of what I'm missing out on.