Yes, I'm still alive. Barely, but I am. I'm touched at the few people who told me they were out there and that they liked my diary. I'm glad that I can express how I feel well enough that it encompasses how others feel as well.
That said....
I feel cold inside. As if I'm locked in an infinite snowstorm, but not as gentle and not nearly as beautiful. As if I'm perpetually being tortured by having my delicate insides frozen into oblivion, in hopes that I'll give up and fade into the cold. Like my veins are coated with ice crystals, and if I cut into them deeply enough, the blade would freeze over in broken pieces, burning with such intense cold that it hurts... and then goes numb. Maybe I'm numb; perhaps that's the problem. Perhaps I'm growing used to the pain that plagues me day after day, following me into my deepest and darkest desires, my fondest memories, my most innocent dreams. I feel slightly dangerous, as if one subtle movement will set me off into a fiery spray of destruction and anarchy. As if a whirlwind resides in me, waiting, testing each seam and wondering when it can burst forth. As if there are millions of tiny entities inside of me that scream for mercy and justice, and they only want revenge.... is that so hard to grant?
Perhaps, for some.
One day.... one day, I'll wake up, and it won't hurt anymore. The pain will fade, and I will stretch my arms to the sky and realize that life is beautiful again. That everything is as it should be. I remember that feeling, ever so vaguely. I would give anything for that again. And I know what it would take.
Do I deserve it?