After Dinner
I cannot make an attempt to communicate any real sense of feeling of myself right now. It would appear that I'm either imploding or exploding what I don't know. It's hard to describe but I think my body wants to eat itself. I'm in a total sandstorm of a mess right now. I can't even begin. Everything is just on top of me. I can't seem to get any of it. I've become to use to not, in a way, of letting anything out. Nothing gets past my lips. I need to go out of myself (myself where I am right now). I need to press my will against myself. I keep trying to come back here, but it's weird I can't. I don't know why, I can't be myself, or at least what I need myself to be. I need an ordered thought, a decision. So I'm going to start keeping a diary again. It seems my natural defense, the only way I know of making order. I'm back to writing on papers, I don't need to tell anyone my joy, happiness, grief and sadness. It's all too much now.
But this ain't a farewell.