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Everyday, I struggle through this hell of wanting to lift a pencil again. Since that day.

That's why I never scorn at obese people. That's why I never scorn at anorexics. That's why I never scorn at drug addicts. You can't just take their addiction from them and expect them to change immediately, and you sure as hell shouldn't shove the addiction right at the reformed's faces and expect them to take it back into their lives......or respect you.

In this case, I did it all to myself.

It's funny because it's not food, drugs, booze, sex, or cigarettes, but a freaking pencil and a paper. Only much worse. You see these things everyday. In the office, on the streets. In the garbage, and notepad sheets. You can't cry, because what is there to cry about? You stopped it yourself. You feel sad, but then what's the point? It's totally logical, isn't it? But ideas that come bombard you. Not that they are depressing or anything, but when you try to put it down on paper you have to stop - because you told yourself: Never again. It's your own doing, yet you loathe it, and double-yet you have to convince and remind yourself again, and again, and again, that it's for the best.

Is it? Or am I just creating drama for myself? Or is it the fear that it'll remind me of every single dream that I have left was taken from me? By my own hands?

Lord, I am not even bleeding, I am not even sick. I do not have a terminal disease or a fatal wound. There are so many out there who don't even have the chance to live but they struggle still!! Of course I know this is a guilt-trip threat to make you fall in line where I think is really inappropriate because everyone lives in different environments and you cannot compare those extremes (Why would you threaten me with a child that lives in Africa??), and whoever and whatever you compare me with, they are NOT me. But still, isn't it true? There are people fighting right now to have only another second to live as I am typing this, yet I have everything people would wish for and I couldn't even bring myself to draw with a smile.

In the end, I say it was my fault, not because it would make me feel better, but because it is true. Even if there were so many influences, wasn't it ultimately my choice?

I understand now......It was so because that was the only time in my life that I could have taken control of something.

I understand now.......

But was that supposed to make me feel better?

Doing what you like is such a luxury it's a sin. Passion is such a miracle. Tears are such a comfort. I have neither. I have a life.

I have a family.

I have a life.

I have a family.

I have a life.

I have a life.

I have a life.