Diary entry 24-4-10
Does my chaotic writing represent the turmoil in my mind?
My life isn't hard, it's easy
My family isn't cruel, it's loving
My mind isn't empty it's lively.
I feel like one out of a million trillion to soldiers, the painted clothes on my body just the same as any other, is this anonymity my glass lid, my deep well?
Or is it my poem in which I am just another drop of water, the same as any other?
I'll have to work hard to become something different. The uniformness all around me, the similarities, more than the differences are the things that scare me, is there another girl just like me somewhere? Why can't I be original, different, misunderstood? Why can't I stand out with no effort on any behalf at all?
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