I like to consider my life a story, written by fate moment to moment, as I hopelessly try to coerce the author into making it something beautiful. So I push and pry into fate's intentions, and scavenge for answers. Answers to why I spent most of my life either alone, or the rag-doll to someone elses sick idea of stress relief. To why every attempt at a relationship ends in ruins. To why I have lost my trust to the world, to why I believe it conspires against me. And every day I begin anew, and every day my faith gets used up, and thrown out. I used to believe I could make a difference, change the world for the better. Now I struggle to buy the so-called fact that I can even change my own life. I watch as love ignites within my friends, as they find purpose. I want to know that fire, if anything, I want that. But life isn't granted wishes, it's a story. Life's fragmented plot is torn and woven into the fabric of our world and everyone around us. So am I just a stray thread? Would you join me if you knew? If you knew what it was like to see the universe through my eyes? Is it pointless to hope for that? I wish I wasn't terrified of every possible way that this could go wrong.