The suffocating air of reality is clouding up on me. The endless stream of frustration is getting the best of what I have become. My thoughts are poisoned by the negativity that is surrounding me. I am starting to question the existence of all good things, of happy moments, and why the feeling is only momentarily.

         Being stuck in this house – our house – now seems to be more than a burden than a blessing.  The sheets that once felt like serendipity now feels like misery. The couch that was tranquil now felt cold and miserable. The piano that was used to express feelings that were better brought to life than told is now covered with a white cloth, and the possibility of it being used again is slimmer than ever. And the memories that developed along with this house now feels like bitter and sad misadventures. This was no longer our home, it didn’t feel like it was even the slightest of my home. It’s just a house, a two-floor apartment that we bought for us. For the family that we were supposed to create. For the lifetime that we were supposed to share. Everything was scrapped when he left me, when he filled a divorce. And now, I am left here, alone.

I need to get out of here.