Dear Human,

You continue to write in me. You take a pen and mark my pages with memories. Why do you do this? I cannot help you; I cannot accompany you through your life. You will write in me and then what you write will stay hidden beneath my cover. These words do not solve any of your troubles, or make any of your joys greater. Why do you continue to write? I do not care what happened to you on March 16th, be that March 16th in 2002 or March 16th in 2012. I do not care.

I do not care what happens from day to day, the world outside which I have not seen in years. I am shut in a drawer in a desk that never changes. I do not know the people whose names you scrawl, sometimes with hate, which fills me, sharp words, sharp tip of the pen, stabbing, carving deep symbols, these words that indent other pages, stretching deeper, impaling me with your passions. I hate these names, these people, these deeds, with such hate that I cannot think beyond the fresh ink. The next page is blank and sends me back to the hatred, so heinous that all the other pages are meaningless. All else I once stood for was a lie because you were wrong and did not love or even like before and had always, always hated. But then my soul is stripped bare again and filled with the names and tears that swell, absorbed for what they are by my paper, filling the indented shadows of hatred with pools of sorrow that fade the expired passion. And then, again, after all of this, your scars, your drowning tears that have mutilated me, they are bandaged – no, they are masked – they are masked by your words of happiness, of your love and of your forgiveness or your damned forgetfulness, a bliss to the human mind which I will never experience, barred from me by the depth of the scars you have carved into my flesh!

You teach me what the world is? No. You teach me nothing, nothing you write is real. You write of your world? Not even that much, for you do not understand your world. You do not understand your life or even your own mind. You pour your ignorance and mistakes into my mind in order to empty yours! To free yourself, to think and honor and worship your own importance, you terrorize me with your fickle flings of feeling! I am not you! I am a book, I am pages, I am something else, not what you attempt to convert my being into. How will I ever come to understand anything or even myself if you continue to fill me with lies? August 16th you saw a beautiful sunset, the most beautiful sunset you have ever witnessed. You called it magical. You called it great. But you did not describe it to me. Do you understand how much you make me hunger for the life you live outside this drawer? It is magical. Why is it magical? It is great. Why is it great? You do not need descriptions, for the date and my face, my features, your words, bring to your mind the image that amazed you. I have no image! I have nothing! You will tell me that all the world is ugly and disgusting and should disappear! What of that sunset? What of that magic and greatness? Was it really not what you said? Oh damn you, you lie! You lie! You lie! You lie and you lie again! Why should I hate this man? Why should I hate this woman? Why should I forgive them and love them or why do you never print their name again? They disappear then, they are gone, so were they ever real? What is real and what is fake?

You place dreams in my eyes. You tell me they are dreams, just as you say your aspirations are also your dreams. Will they ever come true? Will my dreams ever come true? For that is the case, that is what you do to me, you transfer your dreams to me, they become my own. I yearn for the day you fill me with their accomplishment! Everything you write will become etched in my pages, scratches building on one another, blending until they become illegible. Your words on a page, the true account of the day, to be shut and turned over for the next day that becomes more important, that may forget the yesterday and all the others or reflect only to recount them as stupid entries of an immature person who no longer exists. So my contents are only stupidity put into words? They mean nothing and you do not care? You do not care about them or even what you write now, is that right? You scribble and you blot out, you misspell words or make up your own language because you are lazy, as you say, or you don't care, as you say.

Once the day comes when I am so full of your hatred, your tears, your joys and dreams and accomplishments that mean nothing, with your laziness and immaturity and stupidity that reduce me to nothing and create no understanding as lies tear and cripple me! -Fatigued, that is what I am! I am worn with years, my body wilts as my binding splits, slowly with the fibers giving up. My body cannot contain your furies and dreams; it cannot contain any more of your life. No more! Give me no more of your changing thoughts! Do not dedicate me to an idea, fill me with faith, only to tear me down when you abandon, refute, and belittle all I had stood for. Why do you do this to me? Why do you do this to yourself? The you of April 2005 once held what you now ridicule with the highest acclaim. You tear down your own identity; you tangle me in changing personalities. You drown me and bash me, throw me and stab me, but why? I ask. But tell me why you do this to me? Why have you destroyed me and used me, filling up all that I am with all that you are now not? How can you change so much, human? How? How can you change while I will always be what you have recorded? Always and forever.

Why do you continue to write in me, from day to day? Your writing shrinks, it can no longer be read, a mere line on my back and front cover, no longer abiding by your rules of organization. Abandoned, forgotten, or no longer possible…

Why now do you stop to write? I am empty, you can continue. Write over the other pages, you can do this, yes? …Yes, so why not?

For they are only lies.

My pages are blank.

Fill them again.

Write once more.

I do not know what day it is, what month, what year. I do not know what has happened, where you are, what names you know, what beliefs you carry, what feelings you have. I cannot feel. I cannot know. I am now lost, I do not know where. I do not know you anymore. I am filled with questions; your old emotions are knotted. They need to be straightened; they need to be set right; I need a new purpose.

For you give me none.

What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What?

What…am I now?

Am I still Dear Diary?

Dear human….tell me as you take me out of the drawer. Tell me as you take me from the room. Tell me, tell yourself what you and I are. Tell us that we have a mind and a soul that feels. Tell us that we are dear. Worship thought and life and the day again. Let us continue. We are not done. We can hold more scars, more tears, more hearts and ink.

Do not burn us.

I am you.

I am-