I feel as though I am incapable of writing anything that is not dark. My nuggets are more onyx than gold; and somehow every time my pen touches paper, regardless of the ink, it is black.
“Obsession takes a swimming head and drowns it.”
“At night my dreams betray me. They mock the feelings I suppress in the day, and in the morning I am left with the truths I have tried to leave behind. I hate sleep because it always eventually ends.”
“There is no way to undo; no way to forget, to unfeel. There is no pill to take to erase the memories. No medical procedure to extract the knowledge of what was. And so I am left a sea of emotions in which I constantly nearly drown. I have nothing but memories. Knowledge. And feelings.”
Pouring through a decade of writings–as I occasionally do–though I look for something good, all I find is sad. And it is embarrassing that I am that forlorn girl–that prompted words feel false. Heartless. Sunshine does not make my pen move, but how can art be without versatility? I fear that someone somewhere is right: nothing good ever comes from being sad.
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