I'm reverting back to old bad habits of cooping myself inside my room, reading dark themed fictions to match my mood, clenching fists and breathing as shallow as the air surrounding me seems to be, wondering why gravity seems to be heavier on my back against the sheets. I have used up most of my vocabulary to describe this sensation, my battered journal filled with ripped pages and blotted ink can surely attest to that, I'm running out of words, I'm running out of desperation to make better use of my time but there seems to be nothing, no words, no use, and everything is inside the whirlwind of my thoughts, each one slapping me back to reality, fantasy, reality, fantasy, there's nothing real, there's no fairytale here, and I can only rush this out so it may seem like I know what I'm writing and I hope it appears as if the words are just flowing loose like a tranquil river who knows where they are from and where they are going, but I'm nothing like a easy-going stream of water, I'm a hurricane and a volcano and a storm, a full-blown natural disaster trying its best to play it cool, and to be honest I've never been so at loss with what to say and so at loss at what to do

--L.m.