Not a story either...

And it's not to pretty. Maybe language wise it is, but no content wise.

I don't feel like...
running, jumping, laughing, screaming, cheering, skipping, flying and trying.
I just feel very...
Still.
There's something in me that doesn't want to try. To live.
It's a bit scared, it's been hurt. it likes the dark, it likes to hide. It doesn't like noise, chaos, so it whispers and doubts, whispers and doubts. It's like a frightened child, looking, listening and never saying a word. Solemn eyes and careful movements. It hesitates- stops. It just wants to be left alone, in the very very cold.
I cry a little whenever I see it, because it's a part of me and I want it out.
I want to cut it out, rip it out, just tear it from me. But I can't do it because it isn't in me but it's a part of me, a part of my soul.

Oh the past can be a very ugly thing.