it is, it is.

writing shit down is brutal.

i have been reading some stuff from years ago that i found in a notebook.

its nothing poetic, or eloquent. just thoughts.

but the simplicity of it all is what makes it more real. the things i thought... the way it explained what was happening at the very moment.

i can remember throwing that tinkerbelle at the corner of the room as if i wanted myself to shatter along with it.

i fucking threw that little bauble, i had so carefully bought in tokyo, at the wall and left the small shards of glass sitting in the corner for what was probably days. since i had no room mates at the time, i used to come home and drive myself crazy with my own mind.

my own mind.

i understand why people dont like to write things down.




all i have left is a little section of broken wing i have kept as a reminder.

...and a book full of the brutal thoughts that make me up.