"Dear diary,
I didn't really exist today.
Every day I go to bed wondering if I'm real, or if I'm just an echo of an ideal life.
I don't feel like a person.
Am I just an entity fabricated through sheer will of life?
...
That doesn't really make sense, does it?
I hope someone will be able to see me tomorrow. I miss the days when I cou-"
...
The ink on the page is smudged, making the rest of the entry unreadable.
...
The rest of the journal is blank.
YOU ARE READING
From a Crow's Beak: Writing in Passing
PoetryWriting that I've come up with when my emotions push me to create. This is your warning that a lot of these are depressing.
