It may be bliss for the ignorant, but not for the people who must endure them. *sigh* Complain, complain... it's all been said before... do you ever wonder where hope comes from? If there is a secret store of it somewhere, locked like precious stones behind bars of metal and glass? I do, and every morning imagine that I have the key, and I pry open that heavy door and fill my pockets with glitter to help me through the day. There are times when I can almost feel them, gleaming and solid in my palm, and am reminded of life's pleasures and of the rewards of holding on. Other times, they turn to ash in my hands. If hallucinating gives you strength, is it always a bad thing, or are any breaks with reality negative signs of the psychosis to come? I just don't know anymore. I thought, I hoped, that things would be different here, that the people would be different. It was foolish of me. People are the same everywhere. You can never truly know the hearts of those you love... they don't see me shrink in the face of their disgust and hatred, because they don't recognize me as one of those whom they hate. How can anyone look into the eyes of a person and see less than what is there? Less than humanity? Ignorance. That's how. And I don't know how to cure it.