My Little Book

[PrttyBrd]

An amalgamation of thoughts compiled into pages of evidence against you. Proof that you are, in fact, insane. Leather bound and beautiful lends an air of importance to the otherwise mundane. Self-imposed inhibitions dull the colors of delight. Faded hues of happiness no longer resemble its own essence. When did this phenomenon transform into acceptable losses? Years of dreary monotony have begun to erase the memory of rainbows and spring breezes. Searching for something...else, something more than what is seen. Torn, always, between fulfillment and the needs of others. Is it selfish to focus on yourself for a moment, if for so long the focus has been on those whose lives you touch?