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Dec. 6, 2004 In a world so wound with colors, and culture, and feelings, art, and mystery. Taste, and smell, touch, and technology, there’s sure a lot of dying going on. I haven’t wanted to write or speak at all. Depression kicks in like a match to a wastepaper basket. Ugly, yucky, (I hate myself pills) pile onto my tongue, I don’t mean to take them. I sit in solitude, maybe because I like it, maybe because I don’t. Movies play, coffee gets used up, and rebrewed, life outside these walls goes on. And I didn’t want to write to you, much less talk to you, but nobody else knows why I get this way. My emotions bottle up inside like their ready to push some good numbers on the Richter scale, but who knows if it will come out, and in what form it will be. Will I split in half, blow out, or transpire into the skinny air. Will I cry? Don’t I wish for the latter, you said forget the former. But I want my eyes to leak heavy. Then maybe I can see this new thing. Just for a while I can’t feel my emotion, I know it’s there, a big rubber band ball of it. But I can’t figure out if I’m mad, happy, sad, or worried. I can’t cry, and that’s what I want most to do. I can’t even express my emotion on paper but I know it’s there. Side note: I bought a fish. I mean another fish, so swimmy wouldn’t be lonely, I named him Wacked because I thought he was acting a little crazed. He died two hours into the night. I flushed him down the toilet. I swear Swimmy gave me a dirty look earlier, he swam right up to the glass and looked me in the eye. I think he liked being alone. Maybe I should give Swimmy to my neighbor as a present, I’m kind of getting attached. Later: Well, Swimmy died anyways, that was a while ago. I don’t really miss him anymore, he was kind of a pain in a way. He always wanted his small pond cleaned, he was always hungry, and he always wanted me to make kissy faces when I walked by his bowl. It was a lot of effort put into something that wasn’t meant to last. Maybe Swimmy was depressing me. ------------ About the author: Mechele Cassells is 22. One day she will own her own radio station, write a couple books and get married. In the meantime she'll just play guitar, drink coffee, and eat dictionaries. That's the life! Email: mecheolight@aol.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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