I Can't Write.

The mind is a malleable piece of dough that is constantly being shaped by everything around it. As we all age into adulthood, bits and clumps of that play-doh-like structure hardens to form itself principles and morals that will soon become the fundamental building blocks of one's ethics. One without these hardened clumps and bits will prove to be loose and lost. Those whose bits and clumps which have hardened and which change is constantly tried to be implemented onto, will break off and result them to get lost too.

Yet no one suffers more than the skeptic. The skeptic who builds a wall of defence around her own vulnerable self only to exit it with the ideas she had unwillingly wrapped around herself to make it all seem better.

Weak is the skeptic who cannot write. Who cannot feel. Who can't flailingly accept things as others; most, would. Turgid is the skeptic; for her skeptical principles push her in the end to judge others. Because she is too ashamed to admit she is weak.

I am the skeptic, and my demons are eating me within.