6:06 pm - Monday, Dec. 01, 2003
Song:
Today was the first time since my cross to bear that I turned in my head again the pleasure of cold glinting meatal that they form such weapons out of. It was a consideration that made me desire it, but rather something to give me an excuse. I feel aged when I sit sadly about whining about things which might otherwise not have griped at me like so, and yet I feel the need to pout out tearless words, that seem wholy empty and sad, but don't at all reflect my mood.
I either need a reason for these words, or I need to save myself, for I've found that I have fallen in a writing pattern rather than true emotion express. I'm not these feelings, I'm merely skilled at writing there feelings. I narrow myself with this diary to love and angst. And a hope to be something, someday. That's not all there is, and yet, that's how I've tripped into expressing my inside. I'm attempting to come across as more. I'm attempting to write myself out of the pattern. I need to act as if I mean more than that to myself.
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