Sometimes I like to read over my writing in here. It helps me realize how much I've grown from when I wrote it, and it also makes me a little proud that I can write so nicely.
But re reading these journals isn't very good either. I often read over these journals. I often am ashamed that I wrote them at all.
You see, I am an attention seeker. I thrive off of others attention. I started writing these journals, saying "they are for myself." But I've been lying to myself. These journals aren't for me, are they?
These journals are another "cry for help". I don't need help, but I always seem to want people to think that I do. Because if my friends think that I need help, they worry about me. And I love to be pitied don't I?
I love it when they look at me, fear, sadness, worry, evident in their gazes. I love to send little signals that shout, "I'm sad!!".
It's like I gather my happiness from other peoples sadness. I hate myself for that. I suck on other peoples cuts, drawing as much blood as I can before it closes. I'm like a mosquito.
The most annoying pest of the summer. The little insect that attaches itself to you without your notice, draining you of life until you finally realize it's existence and smash it to nothing.
I'm absolutely a mosquito. I know that I tell them that they shouldn't care and they deny it, but it's just because they aren't aware of what I'm really like. They don't know what goes on inside my head. What horrible things that cut me down.
What comes from my mind and out of my mouth is filtered so heavily, that sometimes I can't even speak because the filter is too thick. It's like trying to push an apple through a roll of paper towels. It just won't fit.
And I guess, I've lost my train of thought, so I'll see you in the next entry.