To Those Who Wear Their Heart Where They Wipe Their Boogers.

I’ve always been guarded when it comes to writing here, I’ve seen people pour their hearts out to absolute strangers and I knew it wasn’t of any good because I’ve done it once and learned the hard way that people won’t help you if they can help it, and you shouldn’t want them to. Most of the time, there isn’t anything to be helped with, and people just want the attention, and they get it, and they don’t think about what the people who helped might have thought of when they did, all the ulterior motives and the things they’ll wait till the right time comes and they can hold it against them. I’ve always believed it was rather pathetic that there were still people who fought the pattern, that there were actually people out there who were gullible enough to believe that writing your heart out would amount to any sum of good in this world.

Then I met these people, and I saw the scars. And it wasn’t surprising how self-indulgent they were. Then it hit me, they’re only that way because they can’t help but serenade their knight, being themselves, the only ones they ever really knew in their retarded little self-centered bubble, the only real protagonist they saw.

You learn to pity such people. And in doing so, you miss the little fact that probably the only reason that bothered you was because their protagonist wasn’t the same as yours, and in that, you’re no better than them. They’re just the unguarded, unpolished versions of you.

It's not a coincidence that the weak and the meek rhyme, they’ll come to learn just as you have that all the cosmic jokes are versed.