Did life reject me or did I reject life? The blinding brilliance of the world is a mirror to the squalor that resides within my soul. How much longer can I live this cardboard cutout of a life amidst the backdrop of my personal failings and regrets? Sometimes I rage just to remember I’m alive. Melancholy is permanence, I’m afraid. I reluctantly trudge on while the leaky bucket inside me drips self-hatred and bitterness like corrosive acid from a rusty spigot.