Fuck

I fucking hate myself. I am fucking annoyed at my feelings and at having feelings. I want to make something out of my sadness. I want to rise above what has happened to me but the truth is I'm terrified and ashamed of everything. So ashamed and so mad that I feel this sad.

Spring feels as if it will be upon us. There is a desire growing in me that contradicts every aspect of my waking reality. I know that I should not complain - if I had love for even a short time on this earth, that is better than having no love at all. Yet I also feel envy for the pregnant ladies.

I want to create. I want to give way to the madness inside of me. It won't be perfect and it will be very messy yet, I feel like the story inside of me is meant to be birthed out of inspiration, frustration or both. To escape from this reality of confinement into realms more deeper and of understanding.

Because the pain is too great. It is still as if he touched me yesterday. I have to escape this hell somehow and find a way to forget him. I must write my pain away so that I can be free.

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