I am content in my solitude.
I feel safe and accepted in my solitude.
If I fail, it's only me that knows.
There is no success or achievement in solitude.
It's unseen.
To those on the outside of my solidarity, unnecessary.
Unnecessary because unseen.
Failure is all that screams loud outside of my shell.
Failure casts an ugly glow that permeates deep scars that never fade.
A permanence, a new DNA, labeled boldly, breeding disgust in my solitude.
The solitude I love, but also the solitude that is determined to decay my insides, slowly, painfully, like acid flowing through my veins.
Each burning ember that reaches my brain is just one more crash of confusion, racing into a cavity without an escape.
One by one, the race is on, but with no direction.
Unorganized, scattered, mottled, demonic laughter, satan's party.
In safe solitude.