I lay prone on this cloth, heart beating, blood rushing, circulating, giving this form life. Life is so precarious, none of us truly understand it.

The smallest thing can end us, blow out these flames we call our life. What a life it has been... could be... should be... would be?

So typical, these things I write. These words that flow, yet people read them and act like they are new. Beautiful. Even profound at times. Why? What do these fingers of mine truly do other than put down words we all say, think and feel.

My iTunes is playing on shuffle, playing all the songs I don't want to listen to now. Hmm... I was going to write about something, I forgot it now.

I think I am in pain. I - I am not sure, but I think I am. Hard to decide now, is it pain or anger that I feel? Or is it simply the nothingness of knowing that this is life, it is never easy no matter how desperately we pray to whatever Gods or Goddesses we follow.

I am getting over everything, I think. So many times now, I barely feel it. I am so much better at locking it away. Though sometimes I want to shout, or scream or simply weep.

I want to float sometime, just drift. I float now, but I keep being brought up, thinking serious thinks. Discussing paths.

I cannot write more... I feel like I have already drifted, and gone floating and I think I may be sinking now. How does one not drown, when they have never felt the life vest?

I don't understand why she does this, what purpose does my divine have in giving me this way? I am terrifed now to reach for anything good, just breaks.

... my pipe is broken too.