By what assumption that because we are not friends, we must be enemies?

My heart hurt, with the realization that I have all but ceased to exist. I am not seen or heard, except on these pages, and these pages are certainly not me.

My moods dictate what I write, only in these sad, lonely states do I have time to write. So you may never know the true me, because the happiness is shared with the few that know my flesh and blood. Seldom do they see my bad days, for they are spent in solitude. However, they always see my good days, for only through them are they possible.