I Am Not Myself

To the sovereign of despair who shattered my peace, Dear Mr. Ancient Sadness, this is for the endless nights and the weeping of my dreams. Disguise no longer serves any purpose; I am utterly spent, with every shred of my being weary. My facade can no longer sustain a role in this drama, nor does the notion of living appeal to me any longer. I am utterly weary.

Let us simply succumb now, before I do. What will endure are the letters I penned in moments of yearning for escape, the words that bear witness to every goodbye I've ever uttered. To you, I dedicate all my farewells.