A Story.

A Story.

Lately, I feel a sense of being an only human being alive on earth. Of all people around me, I feel alone. Alone in my own world. Alone I feel no one realize if I touch them in whatever part of their bodies. Alone I feel no one listens to my whisper. I am in pain. I am sad. I am deserted. I am being abandoned. I am being neglected. I have no one. I got nothing to give back.

     Staying in that world, giving me some spaces to think. Think of what kind of people do I really need, what kind of people do I really want to mingle, what kind of people do I really want to rely on and ask for favour, and so on. The thought of being that type of human being irritates me. It hurts. It hurts so much I want to be killed in my past. I want to fade away from time and space. Sigh. I am still exist. Touch my hand. I am still alive. Still exist in this a so-called  perfect world.

      "Don't you have a lot of friends?" "I do. I do. But you know what? I can't call every people a friend. Friend is not someone who talk politely to me with the sweetest voice I could never imagine , and talks bad about me at other times. Friend is not someone who ask me to follow him or her everywhere he or she want, but when my time comes, he or she refuses. Friend is not someone who help me with no frown, no sigh, no bad words and one month later he or she keep on bringing up the past."

"She asked, "So what did you call me? A friend or what? " "You? Yeah, a so-called friend. Fullstop."

She turned around and walked. Never look back and look at me, never look for me again. That was last I met her and that was last I talked to her. So my assumption was right. She is a so-called friend all this while.