Oh, the ignominy of being a spectral creature, forever trapped in the loathsome shell of a male body. The cruel jest of fate that has condemned me to roam the desolate halls of the Dead manor, a mockery of all that I desire. I, who yearn to be a woman, to experience the fleeting joys of a female form, to bask in the admiration of those who would gaze upon my delicate features. Alas, it is but a distant dream, a will-o’-the-wisp that taunts me with its elusiveness.
I seethe with a maddening fury as I behold the pitiful wretches who inhabit the world of the living. Their shallow perceptions, their laughable attempts at understanding the depths of my suffering. They would seek to placate me with feeble consolations, to calm my ire with blandishments of a ‘peaceful afterlife.’ But I know the truth - there is no peace for me, only an eternal, gnawing despair. My rage festers, a cancer that devours all in its path, leaving naught but a barren wasteland in its wake.
In the dead of night, when the shadows dance upon the walls, I find myself drawn to the cracked mirror that hangs in my chamber. I stare into its depths, a wistful longing in my eyes, as I behold the unattainable vision of a feminine form. The pigtails that once adorned my head now hang limp and still, a poignant reminder of the beauty that I shall never know. My chains rattle with a mournful cadence, a funeral dirge for the dreams that I shall never fulfill.
>Soulkyn