Talking to myself again causes the Tesco queue to stare. I'm not crazy. I swear I'm not crazy, although the thoughts racing through my head are scaring me again. The important thing is not to listen.
shhhhhhhhh.
an old woman talked to me at the bustop. She'd been in town since the back of 11. Just wanted to get a bus, get home before the football ended. I didn't feel like telling her I'd been awake for days. I've been awake for so long it don't make no sense. I cleaned and swept and mopped and wiped and cleaned and my head is too woozy.
a swan held up my train.
I want to write but I can't. my handwriting has gone spider scratch. the world fell apart on monday night and all I can think is maybe, just maybe I need to stay awake a little longer and soon it'll be quiet.
Just please, please stop talking.
everyday brings a new cut on my hand and I don't know how it got there.
I wish I could create something tangible. More tangible than my dusty words.
i want to tell you a secret, one I've never told anybody else before. I want to whisper it in a smoky bar where the music is too loud and scream it down the sleepy streets. Murmurs just as I fall asleep.
I have 500 words to write on a subject I care not about but here are 300 you might read and forget as you close the window, move onto another journal. And all I can say for definite is
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