Was wondering, why we mostly feel like writing when we are sad? Like, why are the most beautiful poems written about sadness or something not achieved? And then most painters and artists i've heard or read about have been subjected to some great tragedy in their lives. Maybe because, when we are happy we want to share that happiness with people. But sadness, depression, frustration are more personal.

At least for me. Being upset or thinking about things that upset me, i want to write. I want to unload because it's crushing me. I'm afraid to talk about it, for fear of being ridiculed, worse mis- understood.

Talked to a friend. We seem to be sailing in the same boat. Need your shoulder to cry on. But hey, i wanted it to be someone else. I thought i could depend on him. You find yourself so far away from your heart and it seems to be calling you. But it's lost under the layers of.....what? i don't even know the words. And the cries give way to some kind of anguish. what the hell? Can i not let myself cry a while? no not here. but then no one knows me. It doesn't matter.

I don't want to worry you. It seems to get worse. If only i could really believe myself when i said that everything happens for the best. There seems to be a fog. Some parts are clear. but then it comes down again. At school someone asked me why i looked so tired. Tired? I do nothing. I don't even sleep properly. And those searching- for- dreams have been coming back.

She just lies awake for hours, wondering what kind of a situation this is. What is the damn time? What are people back home doing? Has anyone thought of me today? Has he thought of me? Sometimes it seems like there is hope. Did i open Pandora's box? And then why can i not find the little box that spells hope? It's supposed to be there. But i'm on my knees searching. And it seems to have disappeared. The well seems to get deeper and darker. Once she thought she saw light, but it seems to have died out. Maybe we ought to change the bulb.

I feel like a spoilt brat, asking for something that will not be given to me. If i throw a tantrum will i get it? But that's not me. I can wait. I only wish it was you who would end this unwinding and rewinding of the spools of thread, sometimes lax sometimes on the verge of being broken. I wanted it o be you. But now i'm not so sure.