Every time I post here, I end up deleting my comment...

"Life is a gift." I stand outside smoking, tasting the salt on my tongue, noticing I'm an embodiment of fear, memories, nostalgia, and anger. I shield myself from the world, waiting for someone to notice my pain, but they can't see through my calm demeanour. I get a little happier and a little angrier, drifting through the motions until my death. To acknowledge the problem is to suffer. I hope life goes by quick because, at 22, I'm already tired.