in other words; the paradox of the (wishful) mouse & the (woeful) muse

"dying is an art, like everything else. i do it exceptionally well. i do it so it feels like hell. i do it so it feels real. i guess you could say i've a call."

(in the words of sylvia plath - you must be doing, at least this insignificant something, right.)

right?


a/n: i'm going to try this time, really. it's going to be hard & ugly and beautiful & tragic, like breathing, and romeo&juliet and the look you wish the guy you like would give you, & sometimes i'm going to want to give up. but i can't, because i want there to be an end to this. even if it's happy and i don't get to see it anyways. this sounds so cheesy, guys, i'm just hoping that there's someone else out there at 12:30 am wondering who in the hell this girl is. & i'm wondering who that is, too; who i was and who i am now & who i'm going to be tomorrow - although i still wish i wasn't afraid of who that girl will be. sometimes, silent words are louder than spoken ones, so, thanks, i suppose. :)