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I Write For...

Pain. I write to release myself from it. Every journal entry of mine contains some small bit of pain. And the things I say are strange. Very, very strange. Why do I say such strange things? I read the things I write, pause, look back over them, and a smile curves my face at the accidental brilliance that came from me.

This seems beautiful to me. I don't know if it does to anyone else. I would hope so.

I wonder if I go back and read all my journal entries at once if I'll get annoyed by myself. That would be a strange thing to have happen, wouldn't it? I think I am the same, in these digital pages. The way I think is strange, confused, convoluted. I guess I don't really get it, don't really get myself. People look at me and see my smile and it makes them smile because my smile is so geniune, and I'm not sure how that happened, but it did. Then people get to know me and are weirded out, because something about me is off, different, but no one can put their finger on it, and I don't know how to even try, because I have only ever been the way I am. It's not a disease, or something that suddenly changed one day. I have my weaknesses, my flaws, my ugliness, my beauty. Just like every other human. But I'm not, and no one can tell me why, they just know that I am. You know, you'd think that if they could tell I'm strange and different, they could tell why too. Everyone's the same and everyone's different, yet I just don't think the same way, and it's obvious in EVERYTHING that I do. The way I write, my strange kindness and utter cruelty. I grow attached to things so easily. It tears me apart inside, and sometimes I feel like I don't care about anything at all. Sometimes I feel so alone I want to die, and sometimes I feel so smothered by others, by my LIFE, my plain, boring life that I just want to pack a duffel and get the hell out of this place.

What can I do but die? They said I'd never tell a lie.

Not pregnant. Not yet. Shouldn't be, though god knows my body wants me to be. It's just instinct.

Jonathan. Can't even. No. Nothing.

Rent. Lies. It all fades away when I write because my subconcious, at least, realizes how little it all matters.

One day I will read this and I will weep.

Will anyone else?

Kill me now, before it's too late.

I know I sound crazy. But I'm just a depressed artist. I let my words come to you through nothing, because they are nothing, without a reader.

Painted nails, black and red swirls.

I've managed to hold out for twenty four days without sex. I'm proud. But sick of it.

Ha.

I write for myself.

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catjetrat
catjetrat

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