there is this place inside, where all the good things die
2003-03-24, 3:52 a.m.

It's nearly 4am. I have not been up this late in monthes. I don't know why i didn't go to bed hours ago, instead I watched a movie. But my mind is someplace else. i want to cry, but of course I can't. Lindsay is passed out on my couch, i want to wake her and tell her to go to bed, but for some reason I can't bring myself to. I'm hurting inside, and I don't really know why. If it wern't the middle of the night i would put my headphones on and go for a walk. When Michael died in grade 9, i used to get my old skool walkman out and go swing at the park, and it would help me clear my head. And I keep thinking of things that would help, mostly walking and listening to music while deep in thought, will help, and it does, temporarily, and then I become lost again. I want to bleed. So badly i want to drag the knife that is sitting beside me, all over my wrists, across my arms, over my shoulders, down my legs. just to prove, that I can prove to myself, that I can still feel. That i am still alive. "nothing hurts when no one's real"

life - death