Void.

I once made up my mind to care; yet these days the restrospective returns seem chiefly grief and pain. Everytime people tell I'm doing great I have to wonder what exactly it is they're looking at while my life and identity crumble around me. I am nothing, no one; an apparently impregnable shell impervious to the malicious darts of the world and the devil. So many are just blind to the fact that walls are built for a purpose, a shelter for the vulnerable heart and mind. This calls to mind the oyster, wherein invasive impurities become the cores of luscious pearls. Our defensive mechanisms work similarly to insulate, but these layers erected outside of our essence strive towards monstrosity and hermeticism. Alas, our greatest enemies are truly within; the heart and mind we seek to protect eventually betray us to cause grievous, efficacious hurt where a mortal enemy might only dream of reaching. Though seemingly an exercise in futility, the question is whether it is better to leave oneself open to harm inside and out or to just keep building that wall in hopes that the the traitorous self lays low another day longer. It's not the first the thought has crossed my mind to not care anymore - shirking the heavy responsibility that frankly chokes, chafes and slowly drags under. Should I be depressed that the only viable outlet for my frustrations is will never be read by those who matter? Or is it a blessing that anonymity still provides such an illusion of safety?