October the Twenty-Third Two Thousand and Ten

Day Five with Eight Days:

I remember now what life was. Anger, not pain, not feeling. Everything inside consumed by hatred, eating me from the inside out. Everyone gets lashed out on. Everyone loses. Even me. I squeeze my hands together, trying to keep myself from feeling anything but loathing. I can not relapse; I must always remember. But that's just me, I am too stubborn. That's the thing. No one would know; no one could care. My dirty little secret, and I would never need to hide. Nevertheless, I would only come to hate myself more and thus begin the destructive process over again. I think that if I fell from the edge, I wouldn't be able to stop. And someday, I would just be a piece of blood.

I hold myself tight, clutching my arms, trying not to die. I cry because it leaves me gasping for breath. I found that life is about feeling anything in life. Anything but anger. That may be the only thing I feel anymore. What is this rumored sadness? A happy day? Where these times go?

'A whitened soul,
found in tiny spaces.
Never live an open soul.
Hold a you to never.'