Not having an extraordinary mind, neither owning a kind heart, I am some being you would call ordinary, a neutral existence that does no harm, but too, doesn't amount to any good.

Each day passes by, mirroring the previous; my life resembles a cycle that tediously repeats itself. Wearing the same masks, attending the same play, I embrace the heat of spotlight every day, dancing with practiced ease until the curtain closes.

Wearing a smile (to cover my ugly self), cracking some jokes (to hide my own cracks), and everyone buys it. My life on the outside looks no less cheerful than a merry-go-round bathed in golden sunlight amidst a children's park—bright, innocent, and promising. An obedient child, a reliable friend, a capable young boy with high potential and a broad path ahead.

Useless and despicable to no eyes but my own.

Chances hang in front of my nose, yet I missed it. Relationships finally showing their sprouts, defying gravity and emerging beautifully from the dirt, yet my clumsy hands pushed all those efforts into hapless futility. Making a dream I couldn't quite reach, setting a goal I could never accomplish, I draw my life an endless cycle of failure and should-have-beens, circulating around a worthless entity that should not have existed.

Always almost there. Always almost out. But then always sucked back to this torment with repeated beginnings and no ends.

I have arguments that I couldn't quite pluck up the courage to raise. I harbor feelings way too heavy under heaps of self-loathing to be voiced. Swallowed up by my own insufficient self, I wonder sometimes if it'd be better if I weren't here.

Well, at least I know for sure it wouldn't be worse.

Someone like me, even if eaten up by my own tendency for self-loathing, would just digest into nothing, leaving a bile aftertaste that would paralyze the senses for good.

But then again, these could just be illusions I made up. Hatred from the heart packed into words to be exported elsewhere otherwise it would burst. It's easy to see from here that I can no longer draw the line between lies and truth—I've tricked myself so much that truth now seems merely calculated lies that fit the eyes.

You see, I'm not just-trash.

I'm a terribly messed up one.