I hate this. I hate this lingering feeling. I hate this lingering feeling of hope. Not that hope is bad but this hope stems from my pathological delusions of grandeur. Scratch that. It is not hope. Just a feeling of it. It is not real, just a phantom of a concept of hope. That phantom is haunting me. Lurking in the darkness of whichever abyss I threw those feelings into exile. Rearing its ugly head whenever I feel complacent, whenever I feel like there's nothing left.
I have returned to this place. I have returned to this place where the walls echo the past. I have returned to this place where the corridors are permanent reminders of something that was lost. Something that was lost because of the weakness I had. Something that was lost because I was lost in my own delusions. It was something that only I lost. Maybe because it was only me who was feeling that way.
Yes. Yes, I confess that it makes me smile. Yes, I confess that it makes me smile when I think of what could have been. Trapped in the dreamland of what-ifs. What-ifs. I have dreamed of a lot of what-ifs. When will I wake up? When will I escape the phantoms that haunt me?
I'll sleep in a while. Dreams here I come.
