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The more I think about it, the more I come to realize: I am not meant to be a writer. Sure. I'm open with my thoughts and feelings, but it's all on the quest to heal from the past, in spite of the fear of getting hurt along the way. I once believed this could be what drove me to success. My sorrow would become the paper to print out these tired, weary thoughts. My tears would become ink, and write away it into something special, something magnificent. But I cannot fear anymore. I am growing older, maturing. There will come a day when this pain does not exist anymore, and I will have no meaning to write. i am not uniquely talented. Unique by personality, but not a talent that would whisk me away to fame and fortune, to the better life. there I go again, wishing for the better life. Still.... I fear that if I forget, life will become boring. But yet again, the body repairs itself, with a bit of help. the mind is its own defense, as the body is. I need to stop worrying so much.... Really... it's rediculous. I'm sure if someone read this they'd either pity me or be annoyed by my weakness. to this I say that it is not weakness. I am merely more honest with my feelings than most people.

there! I'm finished rambling! Until next time, I guess. You never know when something will bother me again, so I'm keeping this open! Bye, emo people!