You notice a girl sitting by the railway. She is crying, head buried in her arms. She is tired, her hair droops down past her arms, and is a dirty blonde colour. She looks as though she hasn't eaten in days. There are dark rings around her eyes, and a torn packet of cigaretts sits beside her. She is barefoot, ragged nails telling tales of the long journey she has already undertaken..."I want to go home," she whispers shakily in a hoarse whimper. "But I don't know where it is anymore..."

Looking back, I realise many of my latest entries are about running away. I suppose it's selfish of me to be complaining when there are others out there who probably have larger problems than me, I suppose I am selfish, but I can't help it anymore.

I have become a volcano.

There is a fire growing inside of me, born of frustration and of hate.

hate of myself

frustration at others.

I have become a volcano.

the coals are growing hot

and they cannot remain like this forever.

I have become a volcano.

there is no way to stop a volcano.

I must think of happier things...anything...anything happy...nothing comes to mind.

they are all eluding me as of this month, this year....

I hate myself for being this way, for ranting like this, for boring you all to death in this manner. You're all probably sick and tired of hearing me like this. You're probably all thinking that the day I'm actually happy is the day the sun doesn't rise.

I'm inclined to agree with you.

walking, living, zombie...

walking the old beaten track, over and over again...

treading the same paths, just trying not to fall in the sand.

and sink.

Bear with me a little longer. I'm sorry. I know I'm boring you. And yes, I hate myself for it.

I am a puppet.

lips and eyes sewn on,

jet black buttons and lips of red plastic.

I cannot control my movements.

someone is my mastermind,

I spew words that I don't mean to, don't want to, don't need to say.

laughing when the cue card is waved,

smiling when the show calls for it.

we are all puppets.

mannequins with strings attached.

not moving of our own will.

with eyes that don't see the truth,

shiny, button eyes..

with pens that move to a pre-recorded beat.

hanging and suspended.

swaying to the man-made wind.

Puppets never tire....

identical, frayed threads hang from mangled shirts..

Where's my mask?

The curtain is rising...

last - next