Post by Angie and Orion on Feb 19, 2007 7:10:16 GMT -5
How should I start this?
Dear Diary seems a ghost of a memory, from the little girl that I never was.
I missed her a lot today, my mother. I can imagine her now:
Being questioned by the police, scared and alone, daughter missing. Sometimes I find myself wishing I could go back to her. But what awaits me there other than the law?
It does me no good to dwell on the past, I know.
Seems to me that the more I try to remember the past, the more I forget the present. If that makes sense.
I'm drunk. I know I shouldn't write in my journal when I'm drunk but really, where's the rule? Even if there was was a rule, I'd break it. Screw it.
The last few days have seemed unreal, like a dream that's on the the verge of becoming a nghtmare. That feeling of emptiness, the whole world blurring into one great, grey expanse that constantly screams
alone.
I walk around, trying to see something that will make me think
This is life, after all. It's not a dream. Perhaps I will be okay...
But I don't.
And I don't think I will.
So I lie in my bed, my brand new bed in my brand new home in my brand new life, and count the dots on the ceiling, my mind carefully empty.
The world is so beautiful, but all I can see is grey.
And the bumps on the ceiling.
two hundred and thirty two...
Dear Diary seems a ghost of a memory, from the little girl that I never was.
I missed her a lot today, my mother. I can imagine her now:
Being questioned by the police, scared and alone, daughter missing. Sometimes I find myself wishing I could go back to her. But what awaits me there other than the law?
It does me no good to dwell on the past, I know.
Seems to me that the more I try to remember the past, the more I forget the present. If that makes sense.
I'm drunk. I know I shouldn't write in my journal when I'm drunk but really, where's the rule? Even if there was was a rule, I'd break it. Screw it.
The last few days have seemed unreal, like a dream that's on the the verge of becoming a nghtmare. That feeling of emptiness, the whole world blurring into one great, grey expanse that constantly screams
alone.
I walk around, trying to see something that will make me think
This is life, after all. It's not a dream. Perhaps I will be okay...
But I don't.
And I don't think I will.
So I lie in my bed, my brand new bed in my brand new home in my brand new life, and count the dots on the ceiling, my mind carefully empty.
The world is so beautiful, but all I can see is grey.
And the bumps on the ceiling.
two hundred and thirty two...
