Not many people know who I am.

However, my thoughts continue to flow from my mind onto this piece of paper, out into the world. How long has it been? I could not tell you.

I used to have a name. Renowned as a Hero in the hearts of the young and easily influenced. I could belong to them as a real reason to live. Now I own nothing but the despairs of a fading life. Dust into my hands.

I lost it all a long time ago. Glory fades with the loss of youth. My vanity cracked like the aching wounds of the Earth, and I was a hero no more. No one wanted to know me. So why did they choose to erase me from their minds so fast? Was I really that failed?

I thought not. I wasn't arrogant. I was as modest as the next person. I believe nothing goes to chance in this world. But I could have been great to this day, had the people carried me with them on their wave. It broke before I reached the shore.

I ache like these wounds that run across my hands. Deep and carved, like an engraved crest upon a wooden surface. I feel as though I have been thrown away into the deepest corner of the world, forced into living like a different species alone into the darkness. The night cries to me no more. Even the stars ignore me. I don't have a place in this world.

I do not have a name anymore.

Lack of imagination. Remaining Untitled. No label to the face. Anonymous. No one knows I exist anymore. I can't believe I even willed myself to breathe in this polluted air that lingers around me anyway. I can feel it trying to escape the sigh of my lungs, the blood of my body ignoring the call of my heart, the wounds of my skin choosing not to hear the will to heal.

I will always remain scarred in this light. And deep down, it wounds me even more. Snow unto my heart. Frozen just inside the surface. I will not linger on for long. I have no reason. Just a broken Hero.

The frost gathers on my window. I can see it now. Mocking me, I hear its whispers. How I was thrown into the confusion of exile, how I was discarded as simply as an unwanted toy, the latest in a long line of forgotten fads..

I am lacking imagination.

The thoughts I tell to you now are the story of my life. My later life, a shadow of its former self. It is cowardly and fears to tread upon the path of the truly free.

All stories should have a title. That's a rule, isn't it? So each can be separated from the other. I am certainly alone and separate in this hell I have to live through. My story is different to all the others. But I am lacking in my thoughts.

Please forgive me.

Please forgive me when I say I cannot name my story.

It will remain Untitled. Something in common with its master.

Untitled. And lacking imagination.

Lacking a life.

:: END ::