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Death is a devoid vortex of darkness. I thought about that last night, it sort of bears some resembelance to me I guess. I’d much rather sit in the darkness of my room than be in a group of people. Maybe I’m insecure, and if I am, it doesn’t come as no surpise. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I’ve never seemed to ‘fit’ in with people. Like in pre-school and kindergarten, when they make you watch Play School and play dress ups, I remember leaning aganist the green wall thinking something along the lines of “I’m not going to be like a rocket, that’s silly”. I’ve been thinking these last few days about a few things here and there, maybe trying to work myself out, to sort of not much avail. I know I’m antisocial, but that’s not new, I’ve sort of known that deep down inside since I was 9 or 10. There are things on my mind, little things here and there which twig at me, and maybe I should sort them out, decide what to do and take control. But whether I can put myself to do so I don’t know. I’d much rather be a sponge than a lapdog, at least being a sponge, I can stay in my shell, which is my protector from evilness, and anything and everything, the world the lot. And maybe that’s why I’ve crawled back in, not that I ever really crawled out in the first place. Everyone has their security blanket, and mine is draped all over me.

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