Metamorphosis.

Prefer a quieter place, I do know. Not the kind that blaze off the loud roar from a highly dense crowd and makes my head goes sore and numb and deaf all nights and days and the feelings just elongated for weeks, months, ever-ending. I used to fancy being there, but never now. Maybe because the sick feeling that runs through my veins every time when I hear the high pitch cacophony forming words I barely understand because I choose not to, I choose to cuff my ears from hearing any of those, I choose to deactivate my brain from comprehending any words that managed to trot across the cracks of my cupped ears.

I prefer to be alone now. I strictly choose whom for me to be with now, really. Sounds strange, very alien, yet this happened for a reason. Well, as the saying goes, everything happens for a reason. Really it is only for certain particular times, whereas sometimes this just merely bullshits spilled by those who failed to understand. Think they really understand, except that you know they'd only understand only when the same shit happens to them, which means if some say 'be in ones shoes' would simply be, nevertheless, a bullshit too.

Such people, full of pretences, layers of it, as if by emphasizing that what we feel is the same with what they have once felt, would connects them and us, and makes us the same, fusing us into some indistinctive figure. Bloody the same. When all we want is just to be different, dissimilar, distinctive. And they'd face you, dare to face you up front, and tap your shoulders, and tell you to be you, because this is not you, and they know who you really are, who you truly are. Just snigger, just bloody snigger when you hear this crap out of them. I'd do that for real. Because you know the one fact is, they never really care about you before, what else if now. Just pouring all those perfectly rehearsed lies because they want to be known as those who care, those who are real buddies, those with significant, important rules in this society. Those that you'd rely on 'cause you think because of them, you continue on living. You owe them in a way.

And when you be who you truly, really are - according to them - you that they've known for quite handful of time, you that they're comfortable to be with, you that bring no fear to them, you that they want you to be - they'll let you loose, let you wander about, alone, without them, because they all have other things to do, their things, not yours. You'd gasp 'cause this is the time when every single fucking shit that you've thrown away, coming back in a forceful gist, one after another, neatly constricting your breath, straining your neck, shrinking your lungs, makes you wither away in that fucking bloody seconds - because you realise all those muttered by the twerps are helluva lies. This is not who you want to be. They just think they know you well; but can you proclaim that you really know somebody very well without having them telling you their stories, their darkest secret, without needing them to open up, spreading their archives filled with dark dots, each represents something meaningful, solemn and dismay yet it somehow plays vital role in that journey - journey that is embarked without hesitance, a journey that shapes them into what are they now - can you say you know them  entirely fucking well? No.

Unless if you make their bits, as yours. You swallow every pains, delights, sorrows, joys, as if you down your owns. You see them eye to eye, not just literally, but figuratively. Open your heart, and welcome them in, really welcome them in. And if they're hiding from you, from this world, from the universe, crawling in some shady area, weak, not able to face everything else, so you come, close in to them, and offer them a cuppa coffee. The kind of warm they almost forget after so long living in the darkness, not comfy at all. But the warm you bring, shows your honest concern. Because they know you are there when no one does. Because they know, you fucking care, when no one does. Because they know, even when they wander out there, alone, without no home to go back to, they know you are watching them, watching after them, taking care, feeling the urging desire that goes wilder and wilder till you drop everything that you are doing at that moment, you drop every single thing you have to do, you need to do, you must do, and come running to them with that kind of warm they almost forget.

That is when you are connected, as one. Other than that, fuck you. Do not be there only in the prime times, 'cause that'd make you a fucking bastard who knows how to fucking steal a perfect moment that'd make you shine as a perfect friend.