ill.

I should have, most probably, just deleted you by now. You've promised so many things...yet you never even come to just say hi or ask how I am. I know I shouldn't care, but I'm fucked up like that and so I do. And it hurts. It hurts because it's yet another lie again. You never tell me to go to hell. Never tell me that you hate my guts and I should be better off as a pile of rotting flesh and bones. I hate thinking of you. As far as I know (and I'm probably wrong, if things are as they are), I've never done anything to hurt or offend you. I used to cherish having you. Now I'm placing you lower and lower, in order not even to see what you write... you have your life going on. I just thought, the way it looked like, that I could be a tiny little part of it. You've never denied when I asked. But then, you never talk.

...

What's wrong with me? If I wrote an entry about myself, about what I'm looking for (which I'm told is normal) - it would be so seriously fucked up! Too long and too complex, even though it'd only be a sample, an essence of me.

Who am I? WHAT am I? And why am I?

...