The world is like an illusion, each person sees it differently.

All that matters is who’s eyes you’re seeing it

through. A tangible illusion almost. You see, the walls which surround you may hold no meaning to you
except providing you with a sense of privacy but those same walls could mean the world to someone.
For someone, they may hold the memories of a loved one, they may contain the scars you so
desperately try to hide or maybe just maybe, contain carvings of grief or a past love. Each window you
pass by has a story lurking in the silhouettes of a dream sometimes left unachieved and abandoned in
their childhood self, the very place where they began. Fragments of broken dreams now lay on the floor
with your heart marking it with caution tape so no one can stumble across the land where your heart
once thrived and sung, but now it’s cleaning up the supposed crime scene trying to pick up the broken
shards of your unachieved goals and mopping up the regret, but it’s no use because the shards are too
sharp so they sting with memory and regrets are too stubborn to leave so they hurt with agony, but
there’s nothing you can do about it because the shattered pieces and the tears, the hurt swelling in your
chest made you into what you are now, atom by atom until it’s all you are and all you can be, though it
isn’t pretty it reminds you of the survival sown in you now and leaves you with splinters of the remains
of a dream stacked up in a closet of your heart and buried underneath the veins of that organ, the one
which always feels too much; till the hurt is all you can feel and all the fragments poke and prod at the
closet made out of bare, raw skin till you bleed tears and regret and cry about all it could’ve been, all
you could have been, and all you could have not.