When someone makes fun of me, I turn into the smallest version of myself at 8 years old and I get upset and cry for hours about it. I remember those days well, I remember how much I needed a hug and affection.
I'm unable to explain myself to others, so I prefer to try distancing and disconnecting.
How is a dead motivation supposed to return to its place? This is a question I've been asking myself for a long time. Being imprisoned at home wasn't such a good idea. I look at it from every angle. Going out and being in a crowd isn't fun either. You have to endure long hours of whispering, which is overwhelming.
A distant place, there is dark and foggy, perhaps now it's time to discover magic, trees that have been worn out and blue heaven with purple thunderstorms, black shades that disappear .. Where's where?