Smudged Ink

And so now I fall back into my bottomless pit of depression. I wrote out my life, but someone spilled coffee on it, and now I can't remember who I was. These wet, stained pages are all I have left of me, and Logic sits in my mind, frustrated with me for being so stupid, for pouring out all my feelings from my pen, leaving them exposed and vulnerable. The people around me only make it worse; they all seem to float effortlessly through the crisp air, while I watch from below the surface, shackled to the confines of my own murky waters.