I hurt. It's time for me to lean back, but no one solid will spot me. I create worlds, sympathy, symbols, and muses with my pen as the blueprint for understanding and recovery. Some of you find my word-children beautiful, and cherish their existence. More of you find me stilted and boring.
Writing comes easily to me, however, I cannot conquer, explore or master the social interactions most of you seem to handle so easily: I'm losing friends. When I try to discover what drives the rest of you, I find only more questions. Every day is a struggle, and I find less of you each day.
As my friends flow away from me like blood from a wound, the slow trickle of a trivial cut becomes a torrid hemorrhage behind my eyes. Tears mix with blood, and I cry into unconsciousness. I see you with red: the sunrise of pain.
I hear from few, mean little to more, and fall as I lean on the phantoms of my dreams. Prester Bane knows me; sometimes he's the only one who will listen. More often, he's the only one around when the rest of you ignore me. I lost friends, but I never lose my pain.