Dear Diary (because this is what this blog has become now), here I am, utterly confused today and helplessly sad. And angry at myself because I cannot take decisions, because I am seeing my life pass by and that makes me so sad. It's the sadness felt by the Secret Garden interlude, it's the silent sadness of Beethoven's 7th, second movement.
People come to this world for a purpose, but I have yet to find mine. Where is it, or is this some cruel joke? Masquerade, now that's what I have been doing for so long. Am I to die young or old? Is death welcome here, no it still isn't, because maybe there still is the one per cent of survival instinct, of the hope which has not died out yet. I am scared, change is scary. Memories, plenty of those, and those never die either.
So confused, if someone has a stroke, then I'm to blame. But we cannot blame other people for getting sick ourselves. I just don't know, I just hope this time is over and quickly. I'm just too tired for much more.
People come to this world for a purpose, but I have yet to find mine. Where is it, or is this some cruel joke? Masquerade, now that's what I have been doing for so long. Am I to die young or old? Is death welcome here, no it still isn't, because maybe there still is the one per cent of survival instinct, of the hope which has not died out yet. I am scared, change is scary. Memories, plenty of those, and those never die either.
So confused, if someone has a stroke, then I'm to blame. But we cannot blame other people for getting sick ourselves. I just don't know, I just hope this time is over and quickly. I'm just too tired for much more.
