The Writer's Library.

Touching this paper again, reminds me of all the things I’ve done. When I go to bed at night, I still feel...empty. Anger, passion, emotions, all are fleeting. The only thing I’m left with is this quiet hollowness. An indifference that can’t seem to sit straight. It sits slumped, on its seat, but not touching his desk. His head is hung, staring off somewhere past his feet. Sometimes I wonder if it really matters if I close my eyes when I lay to rest. Open or closed, I don’t seem to get real sleep anyway. I can’t even remember my dreams anymore; my dreams make it worth going to bed. As I lay here I can feel the cuts on my feet. I often go out by my favorite tree, but I don’t bother with shoes. My lemon tree has thorns. I don’t mind the cuts on my feet, I hardly feel pain anymore. It’s the beginning of spring, and despite this, I don’t feel the joy and hope that follows this season.  The only hope I’ve felt caught in my throat when I saw all the butterflies and dragonfli...

In classes, when my mind wanders, it always goes to the same tangent: What if someone came in right now and shot me in the head?   It would be easy. In each of my classes I sit in the front corner farthest from the door. A clean shot. An easy enter, and an easy escape. But sometimes I don't think about that; its a good day when I don’t.  Today was different, I was having a good day, and I thought about it. I thought how I wouldn’t mind if it happened, because I’d die when I was in a rare good mood. That was today. I’m stressed, I needed you. I needed something to hold on to and nurture. I needed to lay your head on my chest and pet your hair.  I needed you, but I didn't tell you, because I felt guilty. It was 3 am. I hadn't gotten sleep. I tried pills. I tried wine. Nothing. I was in agony.  I had myself half convinced I should leave you for your own good. All I’m good for is destroying things; all I touch withers. Nothing th...

(An Excerpt from a Short Essay)                Why is it so interesting when I write down my stream of consciousness like this? It's all merely gibberish that I just barley manage to haphazardly scribble down in a bemused frenzy. It tells no fascinating story of dragons, or drama, magic or scares, nor anything happy, or sad, or angry. It just simply is; and afterwards, it is hated and harshly criticized by me. Yet, I dare not toss any of my madness; I never know when it might come in handy. I may find my scribbling a useful reference.                          Sometimes I write things, and all they are are bits and pieces of some of my ridiculous ramblings jaggedly cut and pasted upside down and backwards with the dullest of safety scissors and the thinnest of glues, into a semblance of sense.

A memory. A moment. That miraculous epiphany when we can recall things we thought lost to that meandering encyclopedia of the brain. Memory seems so fleeting. Yes, it's me. I'm back to writing. It feels almost as if I never had left, yet the clumsy erratic flow of my penmanship says much to the amount of time that has passed. My writing feels so out of practice, such a contrast to my memory of smoothly skating across the page, filling line after line effortlessly. I have timidly sprung forth from my melancholy. I feel so upbeat and optimistic. The wonders that love works chemically on the brain. I feel life is winsome, eternally youthful. I feel more sociable than I have in my entire life. I can look at art again. I mean, not that I couldn't look at it before; I just see it all with newer eyes. I can truly look at it, deep into the sophisticated parable of its aesthetics. Devour it, absorb it. I remember I fell sobbing hysterically on the ground. I couldn't...

I feel so quiet, as if something marvelous or gruesome could happen before my eyes and I would feel nothing emotionally. I stare at nature, and I cannot be awed.         I think of secrets that I keep, and no longer feel the need to keep them hidden, nor do I feel the need to speak them to others. People will only get caught up in what they think of things and judgements of character. Why need they know more than that I am human like they are, and to be content with this.         Anger is a useless emotion; and happiness is too short-lived. Yet I want to feel emotional, and full of life, passion, and color, but, I cannot find it. It is just that I feel....nothing. Nothing but the NEED to write this all down, which is strange for me. I feel the expectations of others and confusion over when I do not feel them, nor feel the need to meet these expectations. I am merely a robot controlled by some other, sharper, more intuitive being or ent...