I don't know. I think school is just depressing. Not that I prefer being at home or outside, all alone. All will pass, and everything will be alright. In the meantime, all I can do is at least 'try' to make things work. God, it's so much easier to get depressed and let things 'unfold' on their own, knowing that nothing good can ever happen just waiting at the sideline. Is it possible to change class? GAH, I hate sitting there like a nut while everyone else around me talks in chinese. Hell, it's so depressing... and lonely. Like I haven't got loneliness burdening me most of the time. =\ I like being around people, just to cover up the disease that's inside. Again, I'm sorry if this entry is jumbled up. It's all up there in my head bursting to get out.

And right now, I'm suddenly grinning to myself. I'm fooking crazy, I knew it.

You know I've been meaning to write and couldn't? I was on the verge of OD-ing and destroying myself. Someone told me to write it all down, and I posted it on my deviantart, had 13 people reading it afterwards. I get possessed when I come up with something, unaware. I think, it's by far, the crappiest thing I've ever written. It sounds like it came from a journal(and is supposed to be.) Critise, worry, read, whatever.

It’s just tonight, that I feel this way. This need to cut myself, to slice open my skin, to taste my own blood. The rusty razor hidden in the little box beckons to me, ‘Come to me now, let the sadness pass.’ But I will not; not tonight. I must pray that I’ll be saved from this mindless game and dangerous hobby. My eyes are dry; I feel my inner pain drumming within the unwelcoming abyss. Right now I’m thinking to myself, let me cut, let me cut, just this once, the last time, I want to slice open my skin. I imagine myself being consumed by my own self-hate, as I succumb to the voices, and they are not of the demons, but my own. As soon as I touch the little box, reality hits my face again, and I push it away.

‘No I will not,’

I promised. But tonight, it’s getting worse, and my promises are becoming empty, and the self-reassurances turning into pathetic lies. I’m thinking of the consequences. I’m thinking of my future in hell. I’m only thinking of going back into the black hole.

Oh would it be good if I could wake up tomorrow with wounds on my arms and meticulous lines on my wrists? Would it be good if I could wake up tomorrow with blood crusts on my clothes? Would it be good if I wake up again in my grave where it is moist?

All this in the name of writing.

All this in the name of writing.

This deadly passion that I have been consumed into. It has been days since I wrote something. It has been days since I last cut. All this in the name of writing. I need to cut my arms to write again. I need to be sucked into the black hole to write again. I want to throw away what possible happiness that I have left in order to put ink onto that paper- all in the name of writing.

It’s just tonight, that I feel this way. I don’t think I can go through this night safely. I see visions of myself swallowing handfuls of that deadly poison, and again, I feel like vomiting. Self-destruction is the key to inner peace. My rusty razor, my rusty razor… come to me now and let this sadness pass- and then would I be able to write again, and make sense of the chaos dominating this inevitable silence.