Once again I find myself with my fingers on the keyboard, ready to write – but what do I write? I want to write, but the thoughts behind the words just make me cry. I want to write happy things. But my life is tragic. I am somehow still hanging on by a single thread, which has been reinforced by friends who care and who won’t allow it to snap. They tend to the thread daily to ensure its integrity.

Gods, I miss you. I am still waking from nightmares and screaming into the darkness of my bedroom. You’re still gone. You’re never coming back. I am still plagued by you.

I want to be in a capsule to keep out all sound, all people, all things, all thoughts. I want to give up and let go. I am not happy. Life doesn’t make me happy. Life is simply a miserable existence. I am just….simply not capable of happiness. Fuck. I hate it. I am a facade. I am not human. I am only an idea that came from a painter’s brush. I was created from pigments and given the illusion that reflected that painter’s mood, and this is how I must exist.