Point of Intersection

If you could see behind my facade, you would know that I'm not happy. If you could tell that my eyes fail to light up when I laugh, you would realise that I'm morose.

I want to run away to a safe haven where protection from the doldrums is guaranteed. A place that isn't austere nor depressing. A spot with stretches of white sand for me to leave my heavy footprints.

Perhaps suppressing how I feel and morphing into a cold, clinical figure would provide some comfort. Instead of dwelling on that which triggers this upsetting mood, I ought to focus on "happy thoughts". Pray, tell me, how do I go about doing that when my mind is in a wretched state?

I did what I did because I had to, not because I'd wanted to. In the process, I may have delivered hurt right to the doorstep. Perhaps I flatter myself. I don't know. I know not because I've not been told.

It has superceded my own expectations. After an arduous wait for the point of intersection, the lines have eventually crossed but continue towards infinity against their own will.

Cloak me in invisibility. Then, you would not see that I've been hurting all this while.