Category : Diary/Journal

Sub Category : N/A

Dear Diary, 

   I believe I have begun to grown ill; I am infected with an illness capable of causing one to perish in only a few moments, seconds even: Loneliness. 

    I promise you, only little time will pass before I die of this toxic disease. 


    Everything - living or dead - now appears to be vague and unworthy, unworthy of living. 

     Rocky pathways no longer symbolize one overcoming hard times, and persevering; they represent roads that one must walk upon for seventy - five years, or how ever many years people live, and at the end, you find nothing; you realize that you've faced and overcome challenges for nothing, that you've lived, for nothing. 

   I do not deserve to live, and I must admit, I do not want to anymore; I feel as if suffering from loneliness will kill me quicker than burning in the humid depths of hell. 

    Life wasn't supposed to be this hard, not yet; not for me, a child. 

     If my friends did not tell me that they love me, and if my sister did not encourage me to fight, I swear to you - I swear on cupcakes - that I would have ended it all, and when they all cease to tell me these things - and they will - I will not hesitate to do so, not even for one second. 


    If you want me to live, if you want me to fight for doing this thing that people keep telling me is fun and rewarding in the end - living, then you must be my friend, because you're all I have left. 

    You must read to me the words that I scribble when I'm in need of a reassuring voice to comfort me, you must invade my brain, and tell me to think of my release, my friend - you - when I have no one else, you must place a pen or pencil in my hand when I yearn to release myself unto paper, and when I'm thinking of you, but still convincing myself that you are incapable of healing my frail limbs, and mending my broken heart, you must prove it to me - prove to me that you know how to do this, that you will do this. 

     I need you, writing, I need you to be the person I come to with all of my secrets, and my embarrassing moments, my dirty dreams. 

     I write, my friend, because I have no one else to write to, no one else to speak to, because even if I did have someone to share all of the things I tell you now with, they wouldn't be willing to listen, and they wouldn't care. I write because speaking to you is far better than speaking to one of my own kind. 


     Writing, promise me you'll stay, promise me you will be by my side always and forever, because, writing, you are my only friend. 

Copyright. 11.03.17