Trois.

Dear Anonymous Readers,

As the minutes pass, I'm starting to think that I might be suffering from paranoia. That mental disease is not something I like to be associated with. Paranoia is something for the weak. I am not weak. I am strong enough to have made it here on my own.
My thoughts don't come as smoothly when I'm staring at the screen. Unlike when I'm lying down on my bed, eyes closed and all other senses numbed, that I would think about the most inspiring things. The same goes from when I'm having a shower. Feeling only the water flowing down my body and leaving all my other senses impervious to the surrounding creates the perfect environment for my thoughts to flourish. Maybe that's what I need to be able to write. Having only one sense working at a time. My mind would then be transfixed at that one sense and thinking becomes easiest thing in the world.
Another reason why my writing isn't as interesting as my thoughts is that it takes so long for words to be typed out here. My thoughts moves fast without any stops. By moving at this snail-like speed, my head can't function at it's best potential.

At times I feel like the things I wrote sound so uninspiring. It's blocky, or jagged. I really need to find better words to describe them. Anyway it seems like I knew this much, but I can't really do anything.

Sometimes I asked myself. Am I really depressed? I sure don't sound like it. Maybe it's all in my head. I could possibly be more delusional than depressed. Then, it could just be these words. These words lie. And so does the other things about me. Pretending was something I taught myself for sake of being accepted, and now I am at a stage where I can't tell anymore if I'm pretending or not.
I'm that good.

I'm tired. No. Not really. I just feel that I should stop here.

Kei