See, I'm capable of control. Gaining it. Keeping it. Staying afloat. Not saying anything I didn't want to say. I haven't even said the things I'd like to say but would be unnecessary. Inappropriate . Embarrassing. If you can remain so gracefully and flawlessly silent, why should I be the one who succumbs to internal pressure?

So here I am. Still proud. Occasionally vein. Always wanting more. A perfectionist, in a rather destructive way. A pessimistic optimist. I've given up on hope- on you- and yet I've left it all to chance. Luck. Fate. Whatever you choose to call it.

It's all there, you see. Either you're right to stick to what seems logical, or there is more to this. More to come. In the near or distant or very distant future- it matters not. I'm patient. Because I don't expect much, I don't suffer. No obsessing and fussing about.

No, I don't actually believe in my wishful thinking; I just like to indulge in dreamlike scenarios. Few details, little consideration of potential implications. A fantasy resembling not a long, explicit film, but an artistic photograph. Underexposed, surreal and slightly blurred. Complete with the essential hint of irony.

The whole thing buried somewhere deep, where no one could find it. Never mentioned in casual conversations, barely acknowledged in moments of self-reflection. I'm supposed to be a strong person. A fighter. A skeptic. Not a fragile fairy-princess with imaginary friends and a secret belief in unicorns.

In this world, they won't let you be both. They disapprove of ambivalent characters. You're forced to become a social chameleon, constantly changing your mask to suit your surroundings. Until you lose all sense of who you are, what you want, where you're heading. Until you're nothing but a ghost: frail, sad, invisible...