The Journal  
Sometimes I feel destructive. Driving my car I think to myself "what would happen if I just

drove off the bridge?" I know the basics: crashing through the guardrail, falling, possibly the car

blowing up, tumbling over, metal crumpling. It's funny, people remove themselves from things,

feel immortal. So I take the step further, what would happen to me? It's disturbing considering

your head banging into the window, shattering glass ripping your flesh, stomach jumping into

your throat as you fall, car hitting, legs banging into the dash, femurs cracking, blinding pain,

then blackness.
You know what it's like. Of course you do, everyone does. Being stuck, stagnant, trapped.

When you have to sit too long and your foot falls asleep but you can't get up and it gets worse

but you're forced to ignore it. I've been sitting for years now, I'm speaking metaphorically of

course, but something more important than my foot has been tingling for these past few years.

God knows when it started.
To say that you're in love is a strange thing. It implies  that you're somewhere that you

can leave or get out of. You can't. Once you're there some part of you will stay there

indefinetly.
Have you ever broken someones heart, seen the look in their eyes the second their brain

catches up and grasps what you've told them or done? In small children it's easier to

observe. No one should ever see that or take joy in it, but people do.  Why?  In adults its

the same, maturity is a nice word for enhanced acting skills and hardening. For some god

forsaken reason people praise these traits. Fancy lying, lying to yourself, to others.
People die. Seems simple enough, but I find it unfathomable. Around town theres places

where peoples lives have ended, where they've drawn their last breath, thought their last

thought. All those little white crosses on the highway, chalk outlines, empty hospital beds,

they're all endings, all once birthday parties, scraped knees, fears, wishes, hate, love, and

then it was just over. What amount of grieving can ever even scratch the surface of that.
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