I’m just the dreamer, lost in the static of the world—
a perfect schemer trying to carve a shape from shadows,
trying to make something of my own in a place that feels
prewritten. But who really knows what it means to lose a piece
of your ******* soul—

not metaphor, not poetry— but that quiet, splintering
ache when belief begins to bleed.

And that’s the cruelest part: when the dreaming continues,
but the dreaming itself feels so ******* lonely.
When every idea echoes in an empty room, and you realize
the silence is louder than your hope.

Still— you dream. Not because it’s easy. Not because it
makes real sense. But because what else is left when the
world stops listening, and you still believe? A piece of
that dream!