This isn't an anime oneshot. It's just going to be some kinda short story thing with desperate attempts at vague plots xD

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There had been one point in my life when I was straying away from what I called 'myself'.

I wandered.

I walked over the corpses of my rotten goals, my dead ideals and my dreams that I knew for sure were never to rise from the realm of the fallen.

I splashed around in puddles that accumulated from the never-ending rain that I had made no effort to will away by dancing the rain dance.

I hate rain. It's stubborn.

I wallowed in despair and agony, loathing, self-hatred, jealousy, anger, I basked under the burning flames of all my regrets that had ascended into my darkened sky as the sun.

It lit up my world.

Yes, it did.

It emitted an absolutely horrendous, morbid glow that made me sick to my stomach. It illuminated the conserved space inside my head, reminding me of all the times I failed before I even tried to take action.

And of course, of the crushing defeats that harnessed enough power to knock me out of the arena before the battle began.

The defeats that I didn't even want to win against.

The blades I didn't anticipate.

The arrows that shot forth from the empty shells of society's words, juggling a mass of false truths that were morphed into a theory without basis.

I walked.

And jogged.

Then sprinted.

I tried to run away.

I tried so hard to run away from these claws that tried to pin me down to the ground, that tried to rob me of my happiness that was very little to begin with.

Through alleys and sections, forks in the road and narrow, worn-down cobblestone passages. Through dirt and grass, shores and valleys.

I dashed across everything.

And I hated everything, because everything hated me.

As I ran, the surfaces tripped me.

The pebbles turned into gnashing little pests that ate away at my sanity with every step.

Ah. . . I wish I learned how to fly.

I truly wish I did.

But I chose to stick to the ground, rooted like a tree, because I didn't think I had any business up in the sky. And now, the earth's wrath is acting against me, whom it hates.

The sky was for angels, for singing faeries that brought joy and sprinkled dust of happiness upon the land.

But I was just a rat. A vermin, a wretched being that society wishes to terminate.

I wonder why?

Was it because of that one mistake I made?

A simple slip of the tongue that brought all backs turned to me?

Isn't it okay to make a mistake, an inevitable deliverance of my honest feelings for once in my life?

So if that's the case, that means my opinions and thoughts are just plain insignificant? No. . .

Something worthy of nothing but rancor?

You see, a few souls had taught me how to appreciate the natural beauties of life.

These souls whispered to me without exhaustion in their voices, telling me that the rain wasn't something to be hated.

They showed me the grace of snow, the pure white waltz that it presents as it falls from the pale, dim firmament. And I smiled, because the snow was pretty.

But in the end. . . Core ideals cannot be changed all too easily.

I hate rain. It's stubborn.

In the end, these souls had taught me, too, that snow is just another form of rain.

And that they were akin to snow, melting away at the slightlest touch.

The touch of a being, the touch of someone who only wishes to experience happiness offered by peace.

Speaking of which. . . When was the last time I've ever had peace?

I didn't know my insignificant insights would summon chaotic demons to haunt me down until I give up for once and for all.

I didn't know that my choice to express something honestly for once in my life would be the end of this wonderful theatre, this extravagant stage that I had been standing on.

Taking on the role of someone who isn't me.

Taking on the role of an entity which I am not.

Taking on the role of a king, a knight, a queen, a pawn.

Taking on every single possible role just to weave the perfect performance and knit it closely with the needles of longing.

Longing for someone.

Someone to ease the loneliness that made me numb to pain, to guilt, to hatred.

To happiness.

The audience appreciated the show. I felt as if I was a fallen angel that has gained the favor of the 'good ones' all over again.

I worked on the masks.

I worked on the script.

I worked on the arrangement of the play.

I can't help but laugh through my tears as I watched my stage crash and burn after a short pause, a rhythmic disturbance as the instrumentalist gets tired.

I was tired.

I am tired.

From feeling all these invisible strings bind me to a wall of iron spikes, carved with curses and taunts that I never wanted to encounter again.

I am tired.

From running, running endlessly under the clear blood that falls endlessly from above.

So tired.

What was the color of blood before it went bleak?

What was the feeling of pain before I went numb from the cold?

As I run, the parasitic sand multiplies.

The pebbles that take small bites at my normal mentality get further enraged.

The rain turns into acid.

The ocean sheds its gentle cloak and reveals the true nature of its mass; lava.

Just like those souls.

Just like the audience.

I wandered.

And tripped.

I stumbled into a pit that I found impossible to crawl out of.

It was a house of mirrors.

My eyes wandered around the reflective room, meeting my own as they landed on a different surface.

I almost laughed.

I looked horrible.

So, so horrible.

Everything was reflected in those mirrors, and the image projected was just the same.

It was just horrible.

Then I thought. . .

Is this why I am despised?

Is this why I am. . .?

Is this why. . .?

Before the fountain of wisdom crystallizes, the house of mirrors shakes. Slowly, cracks form on the hundred surfaces that reflect an entity of clouded judgement.

And they shatter.

Funny. It looks like rain. Lethal rain. Harmful rain.

Rain that cuts.

Rain that draws scarlet.

Ah, I get it.

Everything about me is horrible.

This is why I despise everything.

The shards cave in and form a dome above my head, dancing a Macabre in the air before they take their graceful bows on a wooden wreck which was once a stage.

A stage littered with rotten goals, dead ideals and dreams that I knew for sure were never to rise from the realm of the fallen.

A stage full of holes that allowed puddles to accumulate from the never-ending rain that I had made no effort to will away by dancing the rain dance.

My stage run by façades.

My stage that screamed 'loneliness'.

Why am I here?

What am I supposed to do?

I can't feel the stinging of the wounds that the mirrors had reflected into my skin.

I can't feel the burning of my skull as I try to think of a logical explanation.

Of a sane thought.

But how can I do that?

I ran out of normalcy.

"You were never a stereotypical being in the first place."

I hear.

But who?

"It's me."

I gaze at the center of the crumbling stage.

I see a performer, a child wearing a mask and a pleasing outfit.

I drift off, then find myself settled on one of the VIP seats.

I wanted to run.

Run away.

Away from this place that reminded me of all the times I failed before I even tried to take action.

And of course, of the crushing defeats that harnessed enough power to knock me out of the arena before the battle began.

But I couldn't.

Because the child's performance drew me in.

It was a solo play.

Presented to a solo spectator.

It was the story of a human being that lived through everyday life.

It was ordinary.

Boring.

It wasn't interesting at all, because the human dodged every gust of wind that wanted to throw the sail off course.

It wasn't interesting at all, because the human attempted to be someone everybody gets along with.

It wasn't interesting at all, because the human. . . Was me.

"It's me."

Called the child.

"Me. A wandering existence."

I felt warmth.

It was coming from my palm, which the child had come to hold.

"I have a few questions for you.

One. What does existing mean if the world would remain in a bleak state?"

I didn't know.

"Two. Is a theatric play good without a tragedy?"

I wanted to say no. But I didn't. I don't know.

"Three. Do you want to go back home?"

I froze.

I did.

I wanted to.

I would die just to go back.

I would do anything to leave the outside world and go back to a sheltered place.

I nodded.

But. . . Where?

I threw a query the child's way.

"There isn't a need to search for it."

The mask over the child's face disintegrated, floating up into the sky as small, glowing particles. I was surprised, but I didn't have enough energy to show my emotions.

I wanted to rid of that energy, for my opinions caused nothing but war.

But why do I feel tears escaping these eyes I despise for being able to see?

Why do I feel these lips I despise for being able to talk quiver?

Why does this lacrimal feeling surface as I regret despising who I am?

"You want to go home. You always have."

The stage started lighting up, though, the rickety planks and jagged edges of the broken wood remained.

The curtains that had caught fire, snuffed last minute, hung over the run-down hall like wraiths that sung a liturgy of despair, longing, and of the will to live again.

The decorations, the ruined walls, the ceiling full of holes. . .

Why wasn't rain falling through the holes?

Then I realized. . . It was never falling from the sky.

It had always been falling from my own eyes I once despised for being able to see.

"You are already home."

As the child, no. As the soul of my younger existence vanishes, I feel a strange feeling of exhilarating joy.

I see. That child, that part of me was the embodiment of my happiness. It was that of which I chose to leave behind for the sake of handing it to other people.

I strayed away from what I called 'myself', because I wanted to be 'someone'.

As I step up to the ruined stage, never have I realized that true beauty lay in piles of rubble and broken promises.

I didn't have any reason to search for sanity.

It wasn't something I needed to be me.

Being a part of a play was me.

Being an actor was me.

Being one of many was who I am.

I found 'myself', in a place I never expected it to be.

I don't have a need to wander anymore.

I found my home.

The place I need to be.

My theatre.

My stage.

And I take a bow as I hear that familiar applause that I always loved.

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THIS WASN'T SOLID AT ALL

FCUK THIS SHIZ I'M OUTTT