April 14, 2014
I thought about leaving this place. What's the use? But all I ever do is leave. And I thought about how much being able to write means to me. Of all the things in my life, this is the only one that is completely me. The voice of my soul. Everywhere else, I am comparatively silent, even when talking to friends. Those words, thoughtless and partially for the sake of others, float away, half heard. It's all for something else, except this, which is only for me and life itself. This brings greater meaning to everything that is my life.