shaking. no real reason. nervous, nothing known, nothing unknown. nothing i can adequately explain. Empty. self-analytical/critical – morbidly so. sensitive. fed up with everything/one – but that’s me. i can’t deal with anything over the fact that i’m just coping. i’m inadequate, i’m sensitive, i’m the one at ‘fault’ here. not them. lock me in a room, i’ll be fine. i need solitary confinement now. i need it. they deserve it. they don’t deserve to put up with me right now.
don’t demand or even expect anything from me. i can’t deliver. i’m shutting down faculties, propping up walls. it’s the only way i can deal with this.
i’m empty again. nothing to feel. nothing to give. nothing to have.
postscript (Tuesday, 20th November, 12.03pm): this was written as an open letter to myself, about my parents, who don’t read this diary, but have been annoying the hell out of me of late.. the ‘they’ i refer to in par. 1, is actually a group of people who were congregating in my lounge room at the time of writing, (namely princess, Clay, Trev and Craig). as always, when i write, i purge, this entry is merely a purging of a moment of frustration, and a period of time in which i was emotionally and physically drained.. as the title of the diary (Frankenstein of fragments) suggests, this is only a fragment of my life, and does not apply to all people in my life, or to anyone who may read this.