I am alone. I take colace and comfort in a pencil and a blank page. With my friends I laugh louder and I smile bigger, but when my face is blank, and I write, I am happier. I am happier in this quiet. At heart I am still that quiet little girl. these pages don't comfort me though. Human comfort lasts only a few minutes. I feel so used, so dirty. On top of it all I feel so alone.
21:38
It is dark, and I'm alone. I'm fighting the darkness by myself. I'm reaching out and no one takes my hand. I'm calling out adn no one answers me. I hear led scratching, or led on paper, adn that is all. I hate the hand I have been dealt in life. I have no true talent or instinct for anything. Everything in my life I have done to please others. What is it I have done for myself? These words in themselves are just in case people don't know why I did it. Life. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness. Do I then also have the right to death, servitude and depression?
21:47
The memory of his voice and the image that accompanied it: his tears. The image in my mind? My blood.
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