Lately it feels like there isn’t enough water in existence to sustain my tears. I cry and cry. Sometimes it’s that silent cry, but those tears turn into the horrible wailing I’m too familiar with. I don’t write as often as I used to. Yet, I feel like what I have to say has surpassed anything I’ve known before. I’ve become so afraid of reflection. It seems so horrible to think back, or to see all of the pain on a single page. Reduced to meaningless words. Making myself feel oddly insignificant. How am I supposed to help other people who feel the same way I do, when I’m afraid to say how I feel? Or afraid to feel at all? But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? I’m always doing it for the multitudes of nameless people out there I hardly do it for myself. I started writing this book for myself. To help me get over my first love, that love that will never go away. Why do it for someone else now. It should still be about me, my needs, my selfishness. Me, who is always beyond absorbed in other people’s thoughts, yet always seemingly self-absorbed. Is that ever possible? To be so completely focused on other people that all I see is me? The me that isn’t there? It’s all a circle. No beginning and no ending. Why is existence so unlike life? Life has a definable beginning and end, existence is circular.

If every time a teenager said that their life was over, and then they died, it would eventually bring about the end of mankind. But you can say it, and life will go on. See I went from me, to mankind. What reasons do I have for continuing this? Reasons that are just mine? I’m still searching for that answer. An answer to a question I don’t know I’ve been searching for as long as I knew. Knew what? Knew that there was something I didn’t know. Something so important, there are no proper words to describe it. I’ve been looking for this answer long before this book began. Was death an answer? Obviously not, because it didn’t work. My whole life has been this question, and a search for an answer. All I can find are more questions. I don’t even know the question that spawned this great search. It should be are of the countless that exist. What’s the meaning of life? Is there a God? A heaven? A hell? What’s the meaning of death? Where do babies come from? What’s my favorite movie? Or is it a question that can’t be asked because it is unknown to everyone? I’m back to everyone and very far away from me. So is this search my reason for continuing this book? Because surely I’d still be looking if I had no hands to write with Maybe continuing this book is just something I feel I have to do for many reasons. So why can’t I think of one? Maybe the thought of completion is it. Something to finish. Because so much of my life is a cliffhanger.

Sometimes when I cry, the thoughts accompanying my cries get worse and worse. I go to all the places I never want to be and face everything I dread. I can see my life as a fast-forwarding movie, depending on what I say or do. I can see my life how it could have been had I said or done differently. All of the things, that needed to be said, that I swallowed. All of the I love yous, I hate yous, and fuck yous. My thoughts race through this movie of my life and I always die at the end. It makes me wonder if I would be happier if I could say these things that needed to be said. It’s like I censor my life. And I wonder if all this pain was avoidable. If maybe it’s all because of me. Like, when I was crying yesterday and told my mother to take me to the hospital, would things be better? Or would I feel the let down I caused myself? If, when I had the scissors in my hand, cutting the X into my ankle, I could have asked for help then, or gone further and killed myself like I wanted. Why does everything have to be like this? All of the answers suck, just like the question. It’s all too hard. The teenyboppers sing about pain, like they know what pain is. A broken heart is nothing to a broken mind, a broken person. You write a letter and aren’t answered. You pick up the phone, it just rings. You scream and are met only by the echo the emptiness inside of you brings. Is that life? Drawing hearts because yours has stopped, and because you’re dead. Writing to no one because you need help are too far gone to realize this pen doesn’t create anything, it just mirrors what you dictate. The page is empty because you can’t fill it. The glass is empty, because you are already gone.

What is there in life that you can’t find in death? Everything we do in life, we are doing as we die. All that life is, is death. If I’m insane can any of this be taken seriously?
Days like today make me believe in you, God. Okay, so I felt like shit today as I have for the last few days and nothing was going to make me feel better so I did my best.