I can now not stand to be in silence. The things I once so admired about myself are slipping, shed like lizard's skin. I am still content to be alone, but my mind gives way to lonliness far more often than I like to accept. My words and thoughts, fragments of malcontentedness are spread over so many notebooks, applications and scraps of paper it is getting harder for even me to keep track of them. My calendar still reads August and directions to someone's house (I forget whose) are still written on my mirror. Though they cover my face in the mornings, I haven't got the strength to erase them. I seem to have a standing date with failure. I don't know why. I hate this 'disease' this modern 'disorder' I hate the weakness it breeds in me. I want nothing more than to sleep, and yet am terrified to do so. The nightmares are back. Wicked and bloody and too bold. They tell me too much of what I already know, unspoken fears manifest themselves in my grey cells. I wake with sweaty hands and a bloody mouth. I feel sick all of the time, guilt over God knows what. Surely I've committed no such sins as in my sleep. Thus, concious does make cowards of us all... I'm sick to my stomach over what I have not done, what I should not have said, and what I did not say. I don't know the answers to all these silly questions. I plague myself. I cannot be alone and yet I want the company of none.