Diary #1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
The random feelings we tend to come across now and again, written down.

Submitted: October 04, 2008

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Submitted: October 04, 2008

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I feel so rubbish, usually when writing my diary entry I’d use my fancy, clean cut and precise font, Arial to make others and myself perceive me as happy, even if I am not. The fake ways which normally manage to endure my world however unreal and show like.  Although I seem to believe my thought out words and seemingly surgically enhanced false world, today’s different. I feel... alone. At first junk food layered these feelings. Spoiling as the cream split and discoloured oil floated, randomly dotted. The obvious myth is well and truly real; once any sugar that possibly could’ve cheered your sadness wears off, you fall pretty sharp and unfairly downwards back into the broken glass mood. Soon you begin to hate yourself, the unfit, flabby entirety that is your outer shell, your low self-esteem is worsened as you eat more now revolted that you have no self-control. All these self words seem to be connected to bad things to do with your body image. What about self-confidence? The cockiness that casts a shadow over worrying self-hating thoughts, simply a shadow since as soon as the sun moves your thoughts won’t be covered any longer, searing hot in the sunshine. Again you feel alone. Distracting yourself works, as long as there is something to distract yourself with. TV is always an appealing option but why is it we end up either watching films we know will make us cry or TV dramas which are based around a dysfunctional family or failing society? To make ourselves feel better. I haven’t got dressed, showered or done any work. I fool myself , saying today was a ‘lazy day’ rewarding myself for all the continuous work I’ve embarked on in the past week. But does this rid my emotions of worthlessness? I try to look for people to talk to on the massive, ever growing internet only to find the guy who I’ll never have the chance to see again, friends that are no longer, clothes that look brilliantly stunning on stick thin models, not on you. Nothing is happy, you blacken any thoughts, pulling the miserable weather down and wrapping this particular deliberation in its bitter coldness. You need to talk but no one seems to be approachable this feeling is like a cold you need to either sleep off or simple time to recover from, not laden onto others. I thought talking to myself wouldn’t help, would only make me crazy. But. It does.


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