Talking, but the words I utter dissolve before making an impact.

Singing, but my melodies are background noise, not payed attention to.

Crying, but emotion doesn’t slice into the hearts of onlookers; instead, they watch on as though my pain were merely an ant on a leaf.

Dancing, but my feet are numb, stepping in a rhythmic yet dull patter; a pattern that goes over and over and over again.

Writing, but the words inked on my paper reach no one, my extracts of the world I perceive being cut off from other views.

Wishing, but with no way of carving them into my every day.

Hoping, but not being able to hope properly.