Cold March. Strange. My tea gets cold as I write words that make sense but are meaningless.
Water is boiling in the kitchen. I wish I had the wordss and the tales. BLAH.
I cannot write. I have the things I want to say, of that I'm sure for I feel them. They're in my mind, they're in my soul.
Oh, what is this? I'm just writing one word after another. They make sense, but still have zero meaning.

Untitled.

So, is this it? Is this what I want(ed)?
Days go by, as empty as usual. I feel like a robot, I am a machine.  I do not think about my feelings during week days, but once Friday arrives, it all comes undone: This mask I wear washes off and my skin hurts. My eyes load with the pain I didn't process and my mind and thoughts begin to haunt me.
Loneliness can hurt so much. Loneliness is a real thing. So real it makes me do things out of desesperation. But I'd rather not write about them right now.
Where do I go with this life of mine? Am I saling this boat or just going with the tides? I don't even know where I'm standing. ..