Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

I don't think we should be around each other.

"I'm done with those; regrets are an excuse for people who have failed."

— Ned Vizzini, It's Kind of a Funny Story.


It was so easy to say one thing and do another.
It didn't have to be a promise; 
but keeping to the words said
was equivalent to sticking to an unsaid promise.

It was easy to feel one thing and say another.
It didn't have to be so painful;
but sticking to a necessitated decision
was equivalent to an obligated move despite indecision.

It was easy to repress one thing and make up another.
It didn't have to be so real;
but staying on track with the guidelines
was equivalent to an intentional prevention from derailing.

It was easy to move on and start over.
It didn't have to be assumed;
but feigning collaboration out of emotions
was equivalent to losing touch with feelings entirely.


Packing up the bags to leave home was one of the hardest things to do.

Despite the pain in describing her experience, she was determined to finish explaining to the folks sitting around in a circle during therapy. All of them were sitting legs crossed with a troubled look on their faces. They have been stationary since the start of the session, with the desire to leave the room as soon as they completed the sharing of their story. Nobody wanted to listen to the sharing of others. Boredom splattered blatantly over all their faces and they refused to stand up and wipe it off with the damp cloth situated at the side of the room. It would soon be moldy, one of the folks thought aloud. Interrupting her story, she shook her head and was about to get up. Another folk placed her finger on her lip and shushed the folk who couldn't keep his thought to himself. The folk sitting next to her placed his hand on her arm, beckoning her not to leave and to continue her story. His interested silence was entirely not contagious as the remaining folks silently rolled their eyes in rebellion or shrugged in displeasure. She continued her story while observing the entirely silent room. The folks were not sleeping, they were intently looking at her while she spoke. Each soft-spoken word which exited her mouth enhanced the intensity of discomfort. She began to get this feeling as though the more she spoke, the more she would be ravaged at the end of the story. Do I end the story here, she asked the crowd. There was no response, only hollow stares that pierced her self-esteem. She questioned herself as to why she was even there, much less trying to engage the folks with her story. Nobody cared, and nobody would remember her once she had left the room. This time, the folk who stopped her didn't hold her back nor encouraged her to continue the sharing. She was in tears, but her eyes were so tired from staring into herself that she decided to blow out the candle, grab her bags, turn back to take a last look at the empty room, and walk out once again. 

Nobody stopped her.


Wrap me up in Chanel inside my coffin.



I can make you laugh until you cry.
You know you got all my attention.


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