• Some days I still feel like giving up, hanging up my coat, and calling it quits. Some days I don't have the courage to get out of bed, so I sleep a few more hours until someone else wakes me. Some days I ache with such a longing pain that I throw up. I keep telling myself that I'll start writing and practicing piano again, but everyday I don't. The other night I thought about calling, because I really scared myself. Then I thought about how most people seem to tell you that there's too much beauty to let go. However, at this moment I thought about beautiful things and they held no true meaning. Nothing seems to really have much meaning to me. Mostly because I think about how I'm going to die and these things won't have mattered anyway. Sometimes I think about how I have a pretty interesting life story, so far anyway, and that maybe someday I could write about it, like Bukowski did. Then I realize that Bukowski is dead, and that his story only lives in the hearts of the breathing. At then end of the day, he is still dead. On my Singulair bottle it said, 'if sadness, depression, or fear occur, contact your doctor.' I told my mother about it, she said she'd set up and appointment. I'm half afraid that may be all that is wrong with me; this square pill I've been taking for the past 4 years. The other half is afraid that that isn't what's wrong with me. I'm afraid I'm not ever going to be happy for more than a few hours again. Then again, I'm afraid I will be. Memories seem to really stab me lately. I'm afraid I'm only making memories and that I will end up the way I wanted to a few months ago. I won't for now though, I have some promises to keep. Quote of the Day: ~"It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness." --Leo Tolstoy

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