Why So Pale? (An Unwarranted Venture to Nowhere)

At this point I just want to get back whatever strength anyone ever saw in my contorted features. I never could see it clearly altogether; it's always been blocked by a semblance of hate and misconception. I always thought I could be strong if I wanted; I'd break down only if I needed help severely. But no, I couldn't keep that up. The rush of sympathy, empathy that came crashing down with each wave of false tears thrilled me. I could see it then - imagine all of their pretty faces lined up in a row. How they would moan and grieve at the sight of billions of blotted garnet specks on such a pale canvas.

How I dreamed of the fantastic art that could be found in the seemingly hollow corners of the mind; how I lived for that single moment of realization that clearly would never come. I only needed a dream to crave. I only needed a cause to drop. It only takes one tiny push to plummet - how easily I discovered this to be true. It frightened them; it still does. I used to be scared of it myself, but I grew immune to its potential dangers. Who was I kidding? Of course death is not lacking in pain; neither is life. What is to tell us that the side-effects of injury now are not less than those once we arrive at our final destinations?

I can't answer questions like that; it never was my strong point. You know, people would tell me I was an excellent debater, but then why was I scared from my skull at the thought of sharing my opinions, whether provided or conceived, out loud with a group of highly critical people? Perhaps that's an argument against me; rather for me, depending on how you view it in your mind's eye. Tell me this, Oh, Impressionable One; what is the point of deception? In the end, it's gone no matter how we handle the situation. We're just more dead bodies piled up on a stage; of no use to anyone breathing. My questions grow tiring; irritating, but, please, just one more: tell me this - why can I not love blood?