I need to write. Like stories and novels and plays and screenplays and scripts and poems and novellas and anecdotes and the like. I need to prove myself in some way, and I need approval. For writing is the only thing that I can communicate to any other person, speech is overrated.

But regardless, other things have been going on. I am seeing more clearly this idea of fate playing out in my life. I could be completely wrong, and probably am, but fantastic realities are so much more enticing to beleive. I see myself succumbing to this evolutionary fate that I bear that tells my body to die, and I honestly think that there are so many signs to suggest that I was meant to die, both through my mind and body, mentally and physically. I am killing myself without killing myself. OR, I can escape this fate by extreme measures, by leaving almost everything that is familiar and join something that was once beyond my scope of mind, something so radical or reactionary that is also real to me that makes me actually fight this suicidal infection. And I know staying where I am can only bring me so far in my journey, and so far I only see myself leading the way to the first path. That path tells me that my being wants me to die, that I am currently in a struggle with myself and the rest of the world, no support anywhere. I am hanging on by a loose thread right now whose savior is unknown. I need that moment, the sacred moment. I need a click, a snapping of the fingers, a genie with three wishes, I need help. Im getting help, but how can they help if they are only telling me to help myself, when I'm struggling with myself.