Eniqua
Well, well, well. I have come to the point where I don't trust my diary anymore. So I guess I should trust the public the unbearable heaviness of understanding me. It is an unusual decision, to search for new experiences before closing in, but I think I'll benefit from it, even if I don't acquire the desired response.

I shall say that this time has been hard on my fluctuating sexuality and I've outgrown trust and love for people. Hopelessness has filled me, and I empace it gracefully, as if it was a lover or a brother. I've read books, I've experienced the short-circuit of beguin (it's not a mistake, look it up in the dictionary) and have lost faith in love, or someting called love.

The disease has returned to me. I get shakes and the feeling of unbearable guilt, and I can't cope with them. Just yesterday I cried myself to sleep, pitiful body of my searching for a place to hide from the guilt. But I'm not gonna give the others an unnatural quest to cure me from something incurable. My apathy. My shakes, my hysterics. My hopelessness, my feeling of unworthyness and unloviness. There's no end to this, I'll never climb out of that hole without losing all the qualities that make me humane. So I shall embrace the disease and go on.

The only people I dare to tell are you, unwilling co-sufferers.

It shall stay so.

@темы: психология, кул, блять