Black Bag.
<< 9:12 p.m. - Sunday, Mar. 21, 2004 >>
I�ll be honest.

I read what you were writing, boy. Mixed into the notebook papers and the aging valentines candy I am searching. I am not supposed to be here. I am going too far. But you left it here, and I want to understand something. I want to find the root like Emili said. What is it that is keeping me from letting this go. For christ�s sake, that�s all I really want to do these days. Eradicate the presence of you; who was once so close to me. I�m not enough anymore. In every sense that sentence indicates. I�ve lost your attention and my own self-respect. This isn�t how it should be. I feel to be the weakest creature I have ever known. And I take great swills of alcohol and inhale clouds of smoke to prove I have a kind of power. Power to let myself go. I run down the street with pumping legs and milling arms and I�m trying to outrun my cloud. It settles as I slow.

Why should I feel weak? You are still writing about this girl that haunts your heart. Not even a month. And more than a year has passed. First real ones are the hardest to get over. Two months minus two days for me.

I was hoping my party would inspire massive change. I got tired and sad when nothing happened. Fires in or outside inspire not sparks in me. Ready to walk away from this cloud�