dear diary,

then i write.

when i write i feel as though words are pouring from the tips of my hands, not even giving my mind a moments breath.

i am not thinking but my mind is pouring thoughts as though it was a pitcher.

one day im scared my thoughts will end and like the emptiness that still controls me, that nothingness will control my pen. and it will swallow up my budding thoughts and devoir them before my own eyes.

and i will no longer be able to hold up my hand. no longer able to let words sing from my fingers, because on that day i will be a slave.

i will be oppressed by, well by nothing.

a supreme control of nothing.

waiting for that day, my mind wonders to things far beyond what is already known.

dwindling in greater good, restoring faith in regions of myself i once thought to be hopeless.

even still...

breathing, walking, talking, yes.

but alive, no.

gaga

2,500 miles away, we are laughing at the same joke.

out of touch:

I looked at a photograph.

But what I saw was not me.

I did not recognize the eyes or the smile.

The carelessness, the calm. or the innocent child.

wheres my voice?

a new kind of danger

Analyization: a form of terrorism.

picking away at the truest of trues,

the reddest of reds.

Until what is left but a vessel.

And what once filled this body?

those beautiful emotions?

Well those have been picked, pruned, and fertilized until nothing is left on my apple tree but a few bug bitten leaves and just when i think its all for the better, that i soon will forget the bittersweet flavor of an unripen apple,

a baby green one sprouts.

And immediately thousands of people are rushed to the scene to prude and destroy this little apple until it is no more.

Because what is an emotion until it is spoken?

What is a feeling until it is shared?

what i see:

now, looking in the mirror is a completely different experience.

i no longer look for signs of improvement of disappointment.

no blemish counting or makeup checking.

instead i stare blankly at an unattractive being that used to be me.

i look to this utter emptiness. this whole lack of faith, spirit and soul and i wonder where that girl went.

i wonder if anything is to ever become of me.

i wonder if i can ever appreciate myself like i once had.

i wonder if i again will ever be called pretty.

pray.

have i been scared into religion?

subconsciously forced into something i consciously do not trust nor believe...

have i hid from all reason and science?

Have i tried to explain something I should not?

One dream told me if i refuse to belive,

i will be punished.

Well i am being punished now, and if god is real he will send me a sign, of hope.

without that sign.

without the knowlege that someone cares for me.

i cannot continue this journey,

one this wrong path.

but i will keep searching for the right on.

Because as dead as i feel on the inside.

I know there is more.