I wanted to fight, and I wanted to live. So I looked towards a way which could help me; even if it seemed ominously unknown, I had this grey, monochrome thought towards it of an imagination of support. It didn't have to be friendship or an intervention, but a sole choice I alone made in a suffice of terrifying strength in the wake of anguish. As a greenhorn of this newfound sufficing, despite the confuse and resentment I had settled in such odd ignorance, I forced a remembrance upon myself of the time before I became confused from these people; I felt unlike anything I had endured during ongoing webs of black where I felt like a newfound self once more. I could be easily amused and I had the will to look after myself with those strange basic needs, and these feelings had wavered, yet had remained settled for at least a number of days as this "recovery" progressed in time and expelled unexpected confidences and wonder. I was able to grow bony wings myself in mist of intense agony that compelled against me in a powerful set of days where a breath sickened myself with this soreness; lingered at the back of my throat and forestrings that I had played. Those wings were inscribed with pencil markings of rebirthed blue skeletons and a monotone world self-created and not yet in a retell of story. The birds told me I could tell it alone; the sky's abyss and ripping, vigorously peeling paintings of musical echoes told me with its colours and sobbing songs, yet calmly and wisely understanding all the same, that a life is not worth reliance upon one thing; it should simply reminiscence on its own spectaculars that make it a life, for it is their own sole end away they would be inflicting. You can decide not, even at the verges of cliffs and hallucinations of atheist angels.
It's important, momentous to remember.