They say one of the best times to write is when you feel horrible inside. It’s then that your words can have depth unimaginable. In ways, this is true. In ways, however, I feel empty. I fantacize aoout death because I want to stop hurting, and death would eliminate the hurt. I can write about that, but there isn’t much more I can elaborate on, at the moment.
I can try, and here goes. I wanted to read a book, a book about fairies. IN fact, the book is called ‘faireies’. I looked through the first couple pages, gazing at the illustrations and reading a little bit about the Cornish beliefs. I was fascinated by the boundaries kept by the fairy folk, elf folk alike. It was just past the boundaries of human properties that you would find the fairies and elves. There, you could be tricked by all sorts of fancies-intelligent vegetation, living and material tunes, even whispers and you could even be fooled by another human. Of course, it wasn’t a real human in origin.
I like this book. I think I will continue reading for a while, It reminds me of the past, when I would wander through the forests listening to music, reading poetry and turning into something else. I miss the forests, and I wonder now, if that is why I think about committing suicide. I cannot go home. Home, in so many ways, does not exist.
I want to write and yet, I want to stop writing. This feeling is so complex that I couldn’t be explained in its entirety.
I feel horrible inside, but I think I will try to sleep. Sometimes, sleep is how I stay alive.