A world to forget me,
A world to forget the sullen days,
Forget the days of euphoria,
The days of wild exultation.

Forget the anger that consumed me,
Forget the fallen tears,
Forget the tears that never fell,
The confusion,
The world I left inside my head.

For I live my life in a snowglobe,
Walking in circles,
Erasing my every step with falling snow.

Forget me,
Like footprints left in a blizzard,
I'm to be forgotten,
And gone by spring.

Forget me.

To find yourself,
You must fall into yourself.
For others, a hard landing is due,
But what you'll find is nothing new.

I fall down, an endless pit,
A spiral deep, where shadows sit.

Ghosts are real.
Haunted by something long gone,
Dead, I haunt myself.
Ghosts, they float in my room,
Bouncing off the walls,
Surrounding me with what once was.

Eight years old,
I stand in the corner, crying,
It echoes in my head—
Haunted by my past.

Ghosts are real.
They don’t break glasses or close doors,
They evoke fear much greater than an unexplainable incident.
They haunt you with a cruel reality—
Something far worse than floating books.
The truth.
I am haunted. By the truth.

In my globe I call home
I walk in snow, around I go.
My steps are covered, never seen.
My world shakes as more snow falls,
Erasing my path,
Forcing me to crawl.
On my hands and knees,
Ice burns my flesh.
I ask myself, When can I rest?

I woke with strings attached to my arms and legs. I was quite young when I first saw them on others, but when I mentioned it, nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. They dismissed it — as adults do with a lot of things children say they see. But no. Now I’m older, and they’ve appeared on me.

I never quite knew what the strings were for, but as I went through the day, I noticed they followed every movement I made — my arms, my legs, even my fingers. The strings moved and bent with me. If I moved too fast, without thinking, I found myself tangled in my own strings. Unable to move as smoothly as before. And when I wanted to do something drastic, it took a bit more of a tug.

I always feel them there. Sometimes, when I let them, the strings move me around on their own. I have nothing to do with it.

One morning, I began to wonder — does everyone have their own strings? I sat, legs crossed, on a wooden chair at the round kitchen table, staring at the black and white tiled floor. The smell of freshly made coffee filled my nose, and the strings attached to my arms started to flutter, in and out of existence. I can’t quite remember what I was thinking then. But I felt a piece of myself return.

That’s when I realized: I’m in control. I’ve been in control this whole time — regardless of who or what is holding the top of those strings. I can take that small wooden “X” back whenever I want.

And just like that, they disappeared.

I wasn’t sure how long it would last or if it was just a fluke. But the next morning, I felt no tug at my arms. When I moved too fast, I didn’t get tangled. I could move freely through the world.

Still, to this day, I see people with these strings attached to them. Some are thick ropes, some a thin thread. Everyone is different. Yet, they still aren’t quite able to see them. And if they do, I’m not sure how long it will be until they fade away — until they take back control.

Do you have control?