I lost myself in a story that I was never forced to write. I started writing cause of fun and curiosity. And I wrote a lot because I didn't believe that the story might really deeply touch me one day. My lips carelessly shaped new words that I had never heard before and a soft rose veil began to blurr my sight. I did feel its softness but I ignored the blurring.
Time after time I forgot true colors. I will not say that these colours my story made me suddenly see were not true. This is the fucking point, they are. But what do you do, with a story that never ends? Nothing is as frightening as an endless thing. So one day a sudden wrench grabbed my feet and made me fly and made me cry because flying equals falling, falling equals death. And I love to live. I found myself lying on the floor screaming, I found myself blinded by the night, I found myself breathing words that I loved but in that I hardly believed. I found myself breathing pain - breathing love - pain - the meanest softness and the unbearable truth of love.
So what did I do? I had to make a decision. Burning it and all its true painfully loved colours -- or living. Living in sorrow. Living the life that is some sort of adequate for a 19 year old. That age is not ready for big decisions.

My life was basically a getting around big decisions. This week I changed everything. I finally changed my life. I killed some things - rather i buried them, i don't know whether they r really gonna die, i just hope so. And now i'm kinda a new person. It's maybe the most painful process I've ever been through. But i guess it was the only thing I could do. Right now I'm still standing at my own funeral. My tomb is deep and I myself have to put the flowers on the tombstone. I don't cry when people are watching, and they are. Even I myself am watching me critically, amused about my girly stupidity.

But let me tell you a secret: tonight I am going to burn down the whole cemetery. I'll cut off the flowers and then I'm gonna burn it.
And then
I'm gonna cry-----------------