i know you are not my real diary, because i have no diary, only a scrapbook, and nobody addresses a scrapbook with ‘dear scrapbook’. well, i am rambling. and using my poetic licence to write imaginary things as i imagine them.
so, dear diary…
sometimes life tastes of dry leaves and burnt cabbage. there are days when the silence inside waxes and embraces the outside. or envelops one, and it is rather difficult to un-envelop.
sometimes there are days when experience gives a new name for disillusionment.
and nights when disillusions are the only illustration, the only light. this provides the necessary contrast for the actual darkness one lives in.
oh, and the ivory towers are for others. what i have here, is a tall mud tower, complete with splash and sludge. and more of the same, should i dare to move.
dear diary, on nights like this, i wonder why i am alive. and keep wondering, as no solution satisfies the constraints of the equation.
on nights like this, words remain words only. naked and false. untrustworthy and unspoken.
i also know that the style of this demands a positive ending, or contrast or moral. on nights like this, there cannot be a positive ending, or contrast or moral.
this is where the entry ends. like it were in a scrapbook.