I feel everything. From the bath water that’s slightly too cold,
to the pain in that old man’s eyes as he walks through the street and
wonders how he came to be so alone. I think such small and intricate
thoughts; untouched blades, so dangerously sharp. These thoughts cut the
deepest and yet a part of me craves to swim in a river of red. I want
to watch myself bleed in the comfort of knowing I’m not alone and nor
are the hidden droplets of life that no one else has thought to look
for. That’s why shallow people are often so beautifully pristine - they
are thinkers of common thoughts: blunt knives that cut no deeper into
their smooth skin than the hands that caress their bodies.
Lonely are the sufferers.