Was I Just Another One?

This is yet another old complaining monologue. I don’t know why I still have all of these saved in random backup folders.

Was I just another one of them? I know I could never play the enigmatic strings of your heart with correct rhythm that could ignite your soul and give our worlds warmth of life. And now that my thoughts have become a melancholic song, was I just another musician? I know I could never handle the million colors in your eyes to paint my image on the canvas of your mind. And now that I feel like an abstract painting hanging on an old wall of an abandoned art gallery, was I just another artist? I know my words never had the courage and expressive power to tell you what you always meant to me. And now that you will forget me like an old collection of fairy tales lying on the shelf under a layer of dust, was I just another writer? There are a million stars on the night sky, sparkling through the galaxies of sorrow. Still they don’t seem to outplay the darkness that came over my soul when you abandoned me like the evening sun. You carried away all colors, light and warmth of life, and left me with my own shadow haunting me until it spread all over the land. Freezing all my emotions in a cold lake of fears, and trying to look farther through the haze of confusions, I think no end could be as painful as this one. Although the light outside my window signifies arrival of dawn, I just don’t seem to get optimistic. Is this the end of night, or has it just begun?