Her name was Pamela. Pamela... something. She was a student in Unimas. Or I thought she was. I couldn't remember clearly. I was too numb from the prozac and my horrible life back then. She's sent there for her counselling course training.

I pity her, a woman with so much disposition. Happy young woman. And she is - by her own sense of pity to me, or by force that she is the sole counsellor in the fucking college - one of the many people who tried to get me out of my depression.

But then again counsellors have excellent self-control. I know this, I've got a best friend taking that same course.

She asked me to tell her about myself. I tell her a story. She wants a story, they all want a story. There once lived a happy princess from a faraway land... then she became a whore for the society and a minstrel for the sadistic. The end.


I pity her.

She asked me to draw shit. Explain some shit. Point some shit out.

I pity her, because at that time, I was numb; I knew I was foolish. But it was already too late. I pity her.

I wish I could find her again, and tell her how much she'd helped me out. I wish I could tell her I deleted all her messages that she sent me before I read them back then, and I was sorry.

I am sorry for the numerous things I downed through my throat instead of her words. I was too numb.

I'm sorry Pamela.

I have tendrils.

It's choking on people that I love. Choking would be inappropriate to describe it but I think that's the closest to the reality of it. But on the contrary of it hurting people that I love, I felt the asphyxiation more than they do.

I feel...misplaced.

I'm basically dying out of these varied feelings in my chest, in my throat, in my stomach. I want to hurl but I can't, nothing came out of it. But constantly, all the time, I had to put up with it. Bile is building up in my stomach. I'm sick of it, I want to vomit it all out. What's the use, though? No use.

A single act of silence. You know how it feels like? Knives, goddamn it. Knives being slowly pushed through my skin. My thighs. My feet. My tongue. Sadistic happiness out of it is now questionable and I am considering that to be one of the major problems, but it fucking hurts all the same. I'm not butter. Certainly not a place to sheath multiple blades in.

It's hard to tell what's wrong. There's only deafening silence. It's...nothing in particular. Just tired.

Well I'm tired of getting sharp things stuck on me too. I'd like to think that there's no way this could be justifiable unless both parties are willing to give up their shit and start to understand each other better by talking about it.

I wonder in amazement in my seemingly strong ability to take in a whole lot of idiocy and still not giving up in search for true intelligence.