Pseudo Writer

The walk between the woods, is a lonely path, and yet, somehow, I belong. Below the canopy lives peace, which I desperately seek. Oh, how I long. A museum of all I never had, I leave my belongings, my longings I keep. Haste I close the doors, on all that gives me joy. Oh, how I weep. Longing.  And belonging. And oh, this peculiar heart. Longing. And belonging. So close, and yet so far apart. -Sushant Kumar Das 

Knowing the door will open someday, does not take away the feeling of being trapped. And that's okay I think. It's something you have to make peace with. But now that I am looking into your desperate eyes, it seems life hasn't been very kind to you. And from the dents in your wall I almost missed, I see you haven't been kind to yourself either. So I ask you this. Where did it all go wrong? Or was it ever really right? Maybe you never had a chance anyway. But before I give into your every preconception, I will ask you just one favour. Look at yourself. How long has it been? How far have you made it with no chance at all? I know things are not working out, maybe it is the worst time of all. But look at the people standing beside you, ready to pick you up when you fall. Oh. So you were expecting someone else? Well you have who you need, not who you want. And I hope you are not dumb enough to criticise what you have and yearn for what you can't. I know telling you this ...