27

Mum braided my hair once in Paris -

in the way that it formed a clean halo of hair around my head and I smiled to the mirror while she was trying to figure out how to do it.

After she was finished she looked me for a moment, smiled and said:

"It's nice to see your face again."

I was puzzled, I never have my bangs on my eyes - it's always up or somehow in my bun.

How is it possible that she hasn't seen my face?

The answer hit me yesterday.

In Paris I was truly happy, happier than I had been in months and maybe I glowed in the way that the black veil of sadness had been removed 

26

I've felt all, hands, lately.
This doesn't make sense but imagine that you are standing in a group where you know no one and not saying anything and you don't know what to do with your hands.
You fiddle with them, cross them on your chest, put them in your pockets but it all feels somehow painful in your shoulders so you let them drop and hang on your sides.
I am feeling awfully like those hands.
I don't know what to do with myself.

25

I'm not feeling that good.
I don't know what I'm going to do with myself
I don't feel like sleeping today. At all. But escaping from the window to a summer dream seems like a bad decision after realizing how big the fall must be.
And if I fall, there is a someone who needs to dance alone.

24

I must stop saying that I am lost
when i know exactly where I am
I just don't want to find my way back

23

I'm sad.

In about hundred different ways.

Sad like the gray ocean, sad like a lonely lighthouse keeper. Sad like a nightingale in a cage - sad like you, when you see a beatiful red fox in the side of a highway,
not moving.

22

(Dear diary)

I feel like no one cares anymore.
About me, about my stories, about my thoughts.
I feel like everyone hates me, but it might be my own hate reflecting from bodies made of mirrors.

21

It's been a while since I've written anything. Or at least anything good.
I didn't have any writing classes this semester - we don't write anything in English and it's been so long since I've had any writing classes in my native language.
And the thing is that I actually really miss my writing teacher. She encouraged (encourages?) me to write and she is about the only person who has seen my writing.
We don't count my friends that I show my writing assignments if they show me theirs because i get only comments like I didn't get it or It was ok after they are done with them. Not that I say anything else. They keep telling me that I'm a good writer and I should make a career out of it but then again what makes them think so? All my writing for school is messed up and weird and I write it under pressure and leave out all the good bits that could light the gunpowder on fire. That gunpowder is the reason why I don't show my writing to my family. And they wouldn't respect it at all.

But that teacher on other hand?
She hasn't seen the best of it but keeps reminding me to write, giving me good grades on my assignments (even tho they are a bit shit), asking about going on writing classes outside school.

I haven't written anything in ages and I feel like I'm letting her down a bit.
Then again why should I write when other teachers (read: group-student-counselor-who-is-a-bit-shit) keep telling me that I will not be a writer?

20

I can't believe that I really miss her.

She was bad to me.

She caused me so much fear, so much hate towards myself and the feeling of me not being enough, not being good at all.

We had a silent competition of problems. 

Who has the biggest problems?

Whose life is the worst?

Most of the time she was the winner.

She always had to win.

But then again, I used to share everything with her; my secrets, my sorrows, funny pictures I saw on facebook. 

She was the only person who touched me, 

held my hand or hugged me when she saw me.

That rarely happens now.

She was like sweet poison.

A wasp dressed as a butterfly.

She caused me so much shit, and I still miss her.