Is there much more that I can stand? This stress is starting
to take its toll, and it is a tribute I have difficulty paying. Just in my
previous night, I had been acting compulsively; in a fashion that led to a
burning sensation in the back of my throat. Those tears burn at the pit of my larynx,
raging at the tone of my voice, causing me to cough out sounds of crying. It
was a horrible sensation, one that truly should not be felt. This hell is a
pain that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.
I am torn in
her, and torn in my life. It makes me a pitiful shmuck that I write out my
agony in a journal that I plan to publish. Why do I do this to myself? I’m surprised
I have only asked that question once. This is all a horrid mess…but I have no
one to blame but myself.
But in this
all, there may be a lesson I can learn. Maybe it is control, in the sense that I
should relax, just in the same way that I write. I cannot be sure and I don’t
intend to be. The path that I will make is the path that will ruin me the most.
And I am a cynic, not an optimist. The world is far too bleak and unforgiving to
her children…no, it is the feuds of the children that make life hell. And so, I
am born into that hate…but God damn it, I’ll die in peace.
“So it is…give me
my pen. If death is to take me, let her know who I am.” " What will be my final
words.
Daniel Helle, Nineteenth of May, Two Thousand and Eleven.