April 22nd, 2011

For some reason unknown to me, my head feels as though my brain is vibrating. Well, not literally vibrating, but it's like I cannot hold onto a thought, or each and everyone lacks the normal stability of the things usually being thought up in my head. Sort of like every bit of me is in slow-mo, but my thoughts are bouncing around in my head, giving off little echoes and disrupting each other.
Now my body itself is starting to join in, but I'm pretty sure that's the self-inflicted movement that occurs to keep myself awake. Not that I'm terribly tired. Well, I am, but I sleep enough. It's just a sort of metal/physical exhaustion that is my constant.
What was the point of this? I could have sworn I had something to say. I don't know. The only thing I've written has been verbal, quite odd and most definitely unusable, unless I can decide on a different orifice or method of implantation. Really, with my luck it will just turn into a really old "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" episode. Oh well. Honestly, you'd think the brain-crack would cease or something. And yet, still bouncing in my seat, unable to cling to one thought. Oh well.

Sarah

Journal Excerpt

I admit it, I am a terrible influence.
My poisoned thoughts invade those inhabiting the minds of others.
They change with the wind,
but there is never a decrease in their potency,
never a decrease in how loathsome they are toward myself and others.
No one is safe from the cerebral run-off,
more toxic than an oil spill or nuclear waste.
The most kind-hearted can't escape unscathed,
even monsoons of melancholy cannot aid in ending the drought.
My heart is as dry and brittle as ever,
and I fear such shall never change.

April 18th, 2011

Busy weekends leave me drained, no matter how fantastic they are. They also make you feel shit after, because you're alone and dull again, with the same chant stuck in your head.

Sarey, Sarey, Quite contrary, Always feels alone,
She wants to cry, and I can't lie, sometimes wants to leave home.

I'm hoping if I sleep for a week, maybe I can write something "better".

Sarah.

April 10th, 2011

After the wake, I wrote the required words, resulting from my first encounter with death as someone older than five. I have written in my hidden journal, full of angry words toward myself. There is the useless plotting, of things to write 'some day.' If only that day really existed, somewhere other than the realm of imagination. Feeling full of things useless and cumbersome, and empty of things the that matter, leads to minimal productivity. As does censoring myself, to get into college, avoid trouble, and the scrutiny of others.

Sarah