This is new.

For the first time in months, I'm typing an entry directly into this little white box on diaryland.

For the first time in my life, the night actually seems oppressive.

Odd, though, seeing as the night could not be more perfect. The moon is nearly full, the sky is a gorgeous shade of black, and there is a slight breeze blowing that gets absolutely everywhere, cooling everything down.

Then why am I feeling empty?

What a question.

I feel like an empty wine bottle that has been left alone in a dank corner of the cellar for eons.

An anonymous neighbour is having an early Christmas party somewhere nearby, and there is faint music coming from his home. It trails out of the crevices in his home and empties the lyrics out into the night air like someone throwing out the linen water. It slips away before reaching my ears; soft smoke in the night sky.

It isn't helping very much.

The slipping, fading away...really doesn't do much except deepen my sense of feeling empty.

It's a lovely night, really. The moon is absolutely pretty, casting blazing white light onto lawns and houses. The breeze is almost silk against one's bare legs or arms.

But it's very odd. It's as if I'm just a shell, sitting here, typing. As if I'm not really me, somehow. Kind of hard to understand or explain. Well, let's just say I'm feeling too much of not feeling, alright?

I feel like taking a walk or jog somewhere, running aimlessly (for once, not aiming for any goddamn goal), then, when I've tired myself out, perhaps sit somewhere near the road. You know, scrunch myself up into a compact little cube of sweat and maybe tears, bury my head in my probably shaking arms, and just sit. Just sit and listen to the early traffic and the curious passers-by and the odd stray cat or dog and the birds hopping past my legs and the trickle of water from the drain behind me and let the grey dawn find me.

Me or my body.

Or whichever.

Please remind me to stop scaring you.

Dammit. What I despise about myself the most is that when I'm upset, I cannot, for the life of me, pinpoint what it is that's making me upset.

That really irks me quite a bit; how I try and fumble with words and try and fit them into what I'm feeling but how it never quite comes out correctly.

You know what? I need someone here, now.

But hell, no one is.

Excuse me now, and sorry if I bored you or ruined your day, it was unintentional.

And now, there is only silence.

reminder: i am not a rock.

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