I guess I ponder still the nature of life and death. More specifically death, as my thoughts seem to turn ever towards it. I try to see the logic in the view that life is... precious, something to be protected. But I always consider it a cruelty to so then submit someone to the torture that holding on to a life that has become untenable. Words... are a barrier. I'm laying in bed, crying, shaking, bleeding from the usual self inflicted wounds, but when written down it seems like nothing. It's not the gentle caress of a twisting fear that entwines, right now it's more a conflagration, a wild fire burning through me, unquenchable, destroying everything in it's path, and I feel pathetic that all I can do to express that is write, or bleed, or beat my head against a wall and cry, hoping maybe that whatever screwed up thing that resides in my thoughts can somehow be shaken free through sheer force. A deluded thought I know, pain distracts, it numbs, but sometimes it's not enough, and still i'm trying to somehow manage the balance between wanting to die, and wanting to be in control of that choice. My curse, and my blessing too I guess, if you consider life to be something that should be protected, that the very thing that makes it so hard for me to live, is also the thing that makes it hard for me to die too. I guess writing is a form of control too, I know what I can't write on here, so to focus my words on what I can, to try to express, to explain, but without the ability to capture more than a fraction of these feelings feels like row upon row of butterfly collections, a scattering of colour, as if it somehow conveyed some meaning compared to the fluttering flight of those butterflies flying free. I guess maybe if I talk so much rubbish, I can somehow confuse myself away from the thoughts for a while. I know if I state bluntly, I want to die, I desperately, hopelessly, plead for the release from this mortal coil, it will mean nothing. But I guess it's either pointless words, or a final action, which I for so long have been fighting for and against... the noise of it drowning out the outside world, words meant to be of encouragement, of empathy, no more than the brush of a leaf on your cheek standing in the middle of a hurricane. Maybe i'll just blow away this time. Maybe i'll get the ignoble end i've always wanted. Maybe i'll just stop talking to shadows.