This constant headache is a reminder to myself that you're still gone. I feel like it isn't the right thing to do, but I want to give up so bad. I'm doubtful that I'll be alright. This diary is my only outlet right now. I have nobody to speak to and nobody to hold on to. Not a friend or a lover in sight. My artistic stereotype is beginning to surface: the tortured loner who often cries herself to sleep, and escapes her frenzied thoughts through her literature and color. My mask I've worked so hard to build has chipped off piece by piece. You'd think that was a good thing, but I'm not proud of who I am. My mind is just as complex and thoughtful as yours, but for some reason I don't embrace it. I'm envious that your brain makes you an intellect. Mine makes me a sad girl. It's insane that I've forgotten who I really was. I never wanted to remember. I'm finding comfort from bands like Death Cab and Cursive. It helps being able to relate to the feelings of another, especially because sometimes a happy song will follow a sad one; and then I know, everything will one day be okay.

I decided tonight I'm staying alive; Kicking and screaming.

...and then he says, "Jump!"; and I respond, "How high?"