Through the eyes of the mad.

Life is a queer mistress indeed.

I would put a Sylvia Plath quotation from 'Lady Lazerus' but I don't think copyrighted material like that is allowed. I think it's copyrighted...even though she's been dead for over 40 years.

Forty years...her bones must be clean now. All matter that held her back and bestowed her talent all dust. Dust as dust as dust.

I sometimes feel like I am in that bell jar. Everything suffocating, everything distorted...and you know it. True irony that.

Instead, however, of her white blouse and green skirt, I have my green, ink stained jacket and school uniform. I haven't washed the ink out of the jacket. If I died, I'd like for people to remember those ink stains and maybe forget everything else. Story of my life, I guess.

Ink stains.

I feel like a dirty, black ink stain on this beautiful piece of paper called Earth. It's something that I have felt all my life. Even when I was small, too young to even understand death...yet I wanted it. It seemed a magical thing, like sand timers and the brass ornaments on my Grandmother's mantle piece that winked and shined like a gospel.

I wish I was more of a pencil line mistake than an ink stain, however.

You can erase pencil easily, ink you have to scrub, and scrub and sometimes...it never wanes.

I seem to collect mental illnesses. I think I have Borderline...or Bipolar...or maybe schizophrenia. I've been diagnosed with depression and I've been given Prozac for it but it doesn't seem to fit the bill.

I told how I was feeling to my French teacher. I was passed about from head teacher to head teacher, never left to walk a corridor alone, until I was handed an emergency appointment with a counselor I have never met.

Just because I used to want peace on Earth and all humans to love each other...

and now I see that will never happen and they should be all exterminated like the parasites they are.