There is a Hole on the Back of my Hand.

September 29. 9.15am.
"I've not written in months, so please forgive me. I'm sitting in the furthest corner of the library, wishing I could turn the world around me into fiction. Exaggerate everyday occurrences to make living more interesting. That's what fiction is though, right? Exaggerating everyday occurrences to make living more interesting? Why can't my surroundings be mere playful fiction; a book I can put down when I'm too tired to read it?

It's strange writing again. I'm waffling. Before, I had someone to write about. Now I don't. Now I can't. I can't. I can't.

I feel empty here. As if there's nothing to me. Nothing. I feel like I'm missing parts. Huge parts. Irreplaceable parts. It feels like tiny ants are creeping their way behind my eyes, nestling inside the sockets - masses of ants all just waiting to be poked, hanging their washing on my retinas.

The world offers perfect reason behind this state I've worked myself into. Contributing factors dance before all our lives; who's grabbed theirs and twisted it until it bled?

I want to rip open the sky and inhale the stars. Feel them tear away at every crevice of my insides. Feel them burn through the teeth in my mouth. Do you think window panes are enough to hold the glass in place? Do you think eyelids are enough to hold eyeballs in their beds? I don't. My eyes want to be free. They want to be."