Dote.

I guess that's why I came to writing in the first place, when there was nothing to hold on to, when I was too young to realize that tomorrow I would be okay and I didn't have to run into the bathroom, locked the door and tried to cut my wrist with a rusty knife. I guess that's why I started to read, and books for a long time were one of my best friends. I didn't have friends at that time, even though I still had a lot of classmates. I guess that's why I dreamed about a day where I would be a writer, and be free. From what? I didn't know. I still don't. But I don't feel free at all in my own body. And I guess that's why I write again, tonight.

When I write, I allow myself to be free from all of my thoughts. They are destructive, and not always honest. They want me to let them live, and by that I mean I have to burn myself to get them warm. My thoughts fueled by my own flesh. When I cry, they feel alive. Where are you? Where am I? Am I you? Are you me? I both found, and lost myself when I write. And I guess that's why I write again, when the sky starts screaming and the day is just about to get dark.