7/27/13 Nowadays I catch myself forgetting that I'm not in love with you anymore.

Help I live for words and words alone. But I live in fear of the day when I've read every word in every book, and when I've deciphered each intricate pattern. What then will I have to live for?

Bottles And now I'm left here, still wishing I could've bottled up those moments when I knew you were in love with me.

Sensical A wise man once said that what separates fiction from its ante is the fact that fiction has to make sense, while the real world just doesn't sometimes. I write a lot. I write in a journal I keep by my bedside, every single day making marks, the only real proof that I was here. I read a lot, too: stories, ones that really happened alongside the woven ones. I look back into my journal regularly, rereading old events, trying to connect them to what's happening today. Sometimes I feel like a master craftsman, peering into the past to draw up a sensical, well-developed future for myself. It's like premonition. Why does it seem, then, that my own #life never seems to make sense?

6/27/13 Study till I'm brain dead Practice till I fall Get home and be yelled at Like I've done nothing at all I am doing my utmost best. I'm sorry.