JANUARY 28, 2013 
No new music in the past two weeks. What a rare sight. Been spending most of the last week in bed, not by choice... Tired of my body being out of order. Tired of my brain being out of order. Waiting for it to come back. Always, always. Think that I should feel good that I've gotten a lot better in the past month. Then realize how far I am from where I started and how far I am from full recovery. Healing. Living off nothing for a few months. Still tired. Wondering what the hell I'm doing with my life. Wonder if I'll publish another half year's worth of Letters by my birthday. I started again around my half-birthday. Wish I could write stories, stories about how I showed up at my ex's door on a cool Friday evening, how he tried to close the door on me and refuse to talk to me, how he had (okay, stolen is a strong word) taken — kept — the one thing that I still cared about in the world and then wouldn't give it back, and all I wanted was for him to just give it back, all I wanted was to still believe that someone I spent so much time with was worth still depending on to help save my life.
People hurt people and of course they get bitter. But J never did that to C even though he was still in love with her, and he wasn't even in love with me. I don't want my life to become a graveyard of shattered hopes and dreams. I don't want my life to become poisoned with bitterness like my heart — how I had to murder everything, how God to spare me more misery murdered for me my mind and my memory, and all of my brain.
Once upon a time, I wrote without giving a care what other people thought. I wrote for myself and for myself only.
Every other week I try to decide: Do I still want to continue doing this? This madness[reclaimed]. Whatever happened to writing for myself anymore? For most of my life I wrote for myself, and I produced my best "work." What if I should just return to the world of 9-5s that I never even left because I never allowed myself (i.e. I refused) to enter it?
What if I should just pretend to be a "normal" human for once and carry on life like everyone else does?
At a young age and filled already with bitterness and cynicism. Once upon a time I had dreams, but life and heartbreak knocks you down. I sound so bitter, so negative, so "unlike myself" — the sparkle-princess of self-love from my heyday. I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore. I had wished for better years as I got older, more freedom, but as A, my friend who spoke so wisely to me about anchors whom I haven't seen since I met her last month said, it's not the freedom but the anchors.
Nothing feels right to me anymore, and I just want to crawl into a hole.
How emo, how angsty. People don't want to read about these things. They want to read about personal development and making your life awesome. They don't want to read about people when they're down and trying to figure things out and confused and scared for their lives.
This is the kind of thing that makes me scared to write anything anymore. The fear paralyzes me because I feel as if I have nothing left to offer. I feel sick and depressed and I wonder if I will ever lift out of this darkness.
So bitter, so sweet, so cynical, so young. I don't want to be any of those in conjunction with the others. I get the feeling that this is not where I'm supposed to be, and not whom I'm supposed to be with. But it has to be, because it's the only where (sic) I can be. I'm warm, and I feel sick again. As mortality creeps up
[ unfinished ]
JANUARY 28, 2013 
It's January 28th.
I feel lost and scared, like I'm not meant to be here. I'm confused and I don't know how to write anymore. My mind presses down against me, and I'm simply praying for something to make this all worth it in the end. But it must come from within myself. It must be my own strength. But, what then? What is the delicate balance between self-love and interdependence?