I feel terrible, like there's too much on my mind to shake off. And my finger has a cut on it. It hurts like a rash, but one that doesn't itch.
But one thing I have done right today is related to craft paper. Ifeel sort of better, but not quite.
Sometimes I wish the roof would just fall down and crunch my bones. But that's the easy way out.
I'm trying to keep this short and simple but I JUST. HAVE. TO. WRITE. SO. MUCH. It's the stress, perhaps. I think I'll draw something and kill it so it can share my pain. It might just add to it, but I am a bit of a sadist when it comes to gore. Will it help?
I feel sick, in both ways.
I wonder what it feels like, to die, I mean. To give in to the pain in your heart as it squeezes out every ounce of blood in it just to keep you going. And yet, everytime it does this it's just screaming for you to put it out of its misery.
You refuse, your fist tightens.
CLEAR! you jerk.
No. Don't. Please.
You're convinced, you give in to the pain.
"We're losing her, doctor."
Moans follow. The strange people in the strange white room with the strange smell sigh. "Time of death:" And the nice lady reads out the time. Your soul, or at least what's left of it, wonders why. You're long gone, but you can still remember the shock and relief of the ceiling that fell so fast. But the pain is gone too.
It's been away for a while.
I should stop.
Things are much better than what they used to be. What's wrong with me now? I'm way past the loneliness and bullying. I survived that. Why am I wallowing in self pity?
I cry too much. I know I make it sound like I'm the strongest girl in the world, but I do cry. I'm just a whiney baby.
Mum is so righ about me. I wish she weren't.
Oh gosh I hope she doesn't find this.
Sometimes I think about the possibility of everyone hating me secretly. I'm not the nicest person in the world, but I never would have thought I'm such a terrible one. I'm not anyone's close friend, just a bunch of five nice girls who make me feel so accepted.
That would hurt.
Would it hurt more than being crushed, and having your rib cage break and the broken bones tear into the delicate tissues or your lings? Would it hurt more than breaking your backbone but having not a scratch on the bundle of nerves coiled up inside so you can feel every bit of the pain? Would it hurt more than living just to despise it?
I rather think so.
What the hell.
I don't believe in a soul. I wonder, but I can't believe. I write about it sometimes because it talks of hope. Poetic, pretty hope. Hope that the other side isn't absolute oblivion.
I can't believe in false hope. It kills you slowly.
I've got a theory, but it's complicated and I'd be embarassed if i narrate it.
I feel stupid. Like the teens who think their life is 'so messed up and annoy everyone while whining about how messed up is is. I guess i should be cheery and happy and pleasing to talk to. I don't want to, but it's the right thing to do.
But i shan't push myself as far as drawing something happy. It's not worth the effort.
I'm not gonna write anymore.