I've found a breathtaking, heartbreaking paper.

   I wrote this years ago, while I was still a kid. It breaks my damn heart. It makes me want to cry every single time I read it. I was probably 10 or 11 at that time. It breaks my heart. What I'll write in bold is NOT part of the actual text.

Life's a shit, isn't it? I'm writing these words while swimming in tears. I don't know the sense of life. I never knew it. Always, when I cry... I think: "Why... Why do I exist?" My birth was, is, and will always be a mistake... a big one. I started crying. I was so young. I don't really know... why do I write these words? Maybe to calm down... Maybe I just want to write.. or maybe for no reason. I'm gonna write, why I cry...
I was eating. Now that's awesome, how every single bad thing seems to happen while eating. No wonder I associate everything with it now. My cousin, Ale, wouldn't eat. She was probably 3 or 4. They began to scream at her. I just told 'em to let her do what she wants. Well, not what she wants, but not to force her to eat. She was crying and it broke my heart to see her like that. Then, they told me to shut up. Next, my mom called. She asked me, who I sit next to. In school, that it. Apparently, it was the first week of school. I told her, and it was none of my "BF"'s. Then she told me, they are not true friends if they don't sit next to me. What does she know? Does SHE talk to 'em everyday? No. Then, my "grampies" (haha, grandparents) to wash the plates and stuff (dishes). Am I a slave?! Now, I wouldn't say that today anymore, but they never in their lives asked me to do that. And now, I heard 'em talking 'bout me. Bad things, of course. And now... here's my decision (hope I'll do how I say): (brace yourselves, people.) I don't want to eat anymore. I don't want to care 'bout me anymore. So... I'll write no more. Bye!

   That was it. My eyes were filled with tears when I started typing it. The piece of paper is colored with black pencil, and there are several broken hearts drawn. Even a face of a girl who is crying. Here it is, right in front of you. The proof that I don't have an eating disorder because I want to look good for prom. I knew that not eating would harm me. Now, I don't remember if I actually ate that day or not, but I know there were days when I was a kid when I only ate a slice of bread. Sad, right? Breathtaking. Heartbreaking.

My thoughts fly to you

My thoughts fly to you in the darkness of night
Behind the window I am writing in fright
I see a light across the sky
Rain is falling, the clouds cry.

My thoughts fly to you in the darkness of night
I hear a thunder, then the sky's turning bright
Where are you, love, will I see you in my dream?
Will I cry again, are you going to make me scream?

My thoughts fly to you in the darkness of night
Your face and your eyes are all I have in sight
But can I compare them to the beauty of the rain?
The lightnings and the thunders, a majestic refrain.

My thoughts fly to you, do yours fly to me?
I find no rhyme, so I'll just let it be.
Today I fell in love with the water from above
And I cannot decide for which of you I feel more love.

I wrote the poem last night while it was raining. I dreamed of him after that, I have been dreaming of him for the past two weeks. Kisses and stuff, the two of us being happy together. He texted me today, he wanted to go out but I couldn't. 


His thoughts flew to me. I knew it.

Peace, sure..

   Hate hate hate. Hate is flowing through my body, I can't think, I want to slit my wrists so many times that the razor breaks, I want to break my bones, cut off my head, jump out a thousand windows, beat up everyone I see, make them bleed, get a dagger and make myself bleed to death, take out my eyes and squeeze them, take my limbs and break them in a million pieces. I want to eat all the food in the world until I can't anymore, then throw it up, throw up everything, throw up my intestines and stomach and throat and esophagus and lungs and spline and bladder, make everything come out through my throat then cut off my fucking neck and eat all my organs again, then throw them back up. I want to smell death, ants and spiders and snakes crawling up my corpse, eating me. Birds, black crows eating from my flesh, hungry vultures devouring me, the acid turning my skin green, a putrid green, like a zombie. I want to take out my heart and pour the blood down my throat, wash my teeth with it then again - throw it up. I want to take each and every person and do the same thing with them - devour them and let them be devoured by mad animals. Everyone except for one person, one damn person who won't even give a shit.

   I want to turn to ashes and be blown away by the wind. I want to be dead, motherfucking dead. Eat nothing for the rest of my life, become a skeleton, a real skeleton, then be broken and burnt until I'm just ashes, ashes, ashes. Then I'll be gone and I'll find peace. I'll find peace..

Pencil.

            Do you know that awesome feeling people usually get after purchasing something they wanted to buy for a long time? Something they had never thought they would have, but now, they finally have it! It's a feeling of excitement and euphoria, and you can't wait to use said object.

            That's how I feel about, I'll let you guess, not a car, not a mansion, not even a dress (a rhyme!), but a small, little, try-not-to-chew-it, pencil! I can write the letters in whatever shape, form, size and curliness I desire. Isn't it amazing? I find myself writing more and more with pencils. Any word can be easily erased, only allowing the world to see the perfect – because everything has to be perfect - handwriting.

            Oh, and the paper! These words have been first written in my squared Chemistry notebook, on a random page and with lots of words being crossed over. But then, as I'll write them on my laptop, everything will be clean and neat, no crossovers, all the letters will look exactly the same (of course, a's will look like a's, b's like b's and so on), without any personality, without a story ("... and because I was in such a hurry, I accidentally made the 'a' look like an 'o'! It's so annoying when it happens!").

            In fact, that's what the world wants, anyways. They want everyone to be the same, and if you're not like them (yes, I am aware of the fact that people are all unique. See that? They are ALL UNIQUE) then you are considered mad and crazy and, God forbid, different! Being tall or short makes you different, having any other color but brown eyes makes you different, reading ("We got a nerd over here!"), writing ("Bring it on, Shakespeare!"), singing ("Who do you think you are, Madonna?"), being smart ("How come you don't know that, Einstein?" And by the way, Einstein was not a "smart" guy, he was a physicist), everything makes you different. Even I, who wrote this long sentence with lots of commas and brackets, am different from the people who only write short, four-word sentences, not to mention the excess of punctuation marks or lack thereof (I always wanted to say that. "Lack thereof").

            Back to pencils now.

            I could easily associate them with people. They have good days (when they are sharp and nice) and bad days (which are, obviously, the opposite of the good days). They break - mine just did – they get lost and then found, they live in groups and have different appearances. But, as opposed to human beings, no pencil can be considered "average".

            "The average person drinks around seven glasses of water a day, though it is strongly advised that you drink eight," one might say. This does not work with pencils. "The average pencil has the length of approximately fifteen centimeters," really? Yes, they might have that length at the beginning, but then you sharpen them and they get smaller. People drink seven glasses (or whichever quantity) of water without even caring or counting, they just DO IT. It is something general, a need. Pencils are different.

            Why must everyone be "average" to be accepted by the society? What does average mean, anyway? If you ask me (I know you have not, but I have the urge to share this), the term is pretty vague. How many people called Mohammed do you now? (This is where you say "none" or "one". Follow the script, please) I thought so. Well, if you are from Europe, at least. Still, most men on this planet have that name. It is the most common male name, or so I have heard. You draw the conclusion. (For the lazier ones: The average man is called Mohammed. Funny enough?)

            The Ultimate Conclusion: Pencils have more fun. They don't have the possibility to have so many theories...

Rain

   It is raining. For the first time in ages, it is raining. The sky is gray, the rain is gray, everything is gray. I like everything that is gray -- my soul is gray. The smell of the rain, the fresh air, the water falling from the sky, the wind blowing, taking my thoughts far, far away, where no one can take them.. Dogs barking, rain pouring, hitting the ground and the metal roofs. I hear the church's bells. Eight o'clock. Friday morning.

   The candles are lit. Magnolia and cinnamon candles, spreading their scent. They are the only light source, except for the daylight, shyly hiding behind my curtains.. being held there for so long. I'm sitting here, typing, enjoying the grandiosity of the candles, the feeling of safety the curtains give me, the dark room. The dark, wet weather. I could go outside and dance in the rain, wet my socks, wet my hair. I could do all those.

   It is Friday morning. I am supposed to be at school. Instead, I am at home (no -- I'm not skipping school. I have reasons for being at home), surrounded by candles and rain, waiting for nine laxatives to kick me down sometime soon, waiting for the horror, waiting for the dark.

   I open the window. For the first time in ages, I can breathe.

   The sun is blinding my eyes as it is setting. I go and go and go without stopping. I take the longest route. The thoughts are running through my head, songs are running through my head. There is so much noise. so much noise that I can't hear my own thoughts. I am going faster, faster. Faster than him. Faster than her. I almost start running, running from something that could be following me, something I am afraid of.
   I need to be there by 5:40. I'll be there. I will be there. The faster I go, the more I feel I am being held back by something. Big, quick steps - why can I not go faster? Faster, faster. I'll be there, even if I have to die on my way there. Nothing can stop me. Calves hurt. Ankles are paralyzed. My feet are losing control, my legs fall brutally on the ground. I do not feel anything anymore. "Where are all the wannarexics at? Once yo' thin, yo' still see fat." Play, replay, play, replay, why do you not stop? Go away. Get out, get out. "I need my mind to be empty and I know I can empty it why does it not work why won't it work why are these random words flying through my head I know I make no sense thank God no one can hear me I want home I want out I want it to be over and die and be over and everything and why are the thoughts rushing through my head why get out get out." Turn left, go up the hill. I am getting tired. I almost run past the people, they might wonder what I am running from. "The tougher it is, the more you need to push yourself. Break the fucking limit." By the time I am there, I can't feel anything. My legs hurt, I am screaming, not breathing.

   I am the second to arrive.

Confusion

   Remember when you were in Maths class and had to calculate something, but the number you got in the end was just too weird or too perfect?

   Confusion is a thing that many of us feel. It is there without us knowing of it, but it makes sure it appears right when we have nothing else to do. When we have nothing to think about. When we are empty.

   How do I know if I have an eating disorder if I have never been diagnosed, but have an unhealthy behavior towards food for almost a year now? What if I am eating normally and taking laxatives, 9 at a time? What if, one day, I feel good and eat much, but then throw up until there is nothing left? What if I can binge as if I had never eaten before, but also eat nothing for five days? What if I used to spend three or four days a week only drinking liquids? Is it disordered eating? Is it an eating disorder? Or when I used to exercise until I could not breathe anymore, almost crying, muscles dying? Or, perhaps, when I feel paranoid whenever I go to bathroom during the night? When I never go to the same pharmacy twice?
 
   How do I know if I am depressed if I am angry and hateful in the morning, happy until evening, and suicidal before going to sleep? What was it, when I wrote a "Goodbye" note? What was it, when I sat right in the middle of the house for minutes, laughing as hard as I could, and half an hour later slicing my body with a broken glass? What was it, when I sat on the ledge of the window, not knowing if I should jump or not; but forgot the episode the next week? What about, when I have to see a psychiatrist for my changing moods (or the "nothing" feeling) which cause me to self-harm?

   What can I think about myself when I remember having visual and auditory hallucinations? "But, Dad, I swear Mom was right there, reading her e-mails on her blackberry," or "Wait.. I hear something ringing. What? You can't hear it? But it is here!" Or when I almost start crying because of the "bang, bang, bang" sound in my head? Or on some Saturdays, when I used to lie in bed and didn't want to get out because I wanted to avoid my grandparents, who I could swear were downstairs talking to my parents.


   How do I know if I have an eating disorder or not, am depressed or not, am insane or not; how do I know if I am okay or not?

Inspiration..

   Inspiration. Shortly defined as being "a sudden feeling of enthusiasm, or a new idea that helps you to do or create  something". Where does it come from? Is it a thing that just hits you, or do you have to wait for a long time to find it? To me, inspiration is something natural. Something that I can create for myself, something that creates me. It's an endless river of knowledge, ideas and fantasy.
   Which is why I don't like people who say "I have no inspiration today" instead of actually trying to write something. I don't say that it's not okay to have a hard time finding your inspiration - this can be very tricky sometimes. I say I don't like people who give up easily. Today, I wanted to start a new chapter in my book-attempt. I "had no inspiration", but I ended up with ~160 words - this is still something. Something that I'll edit and add to, and which will probably turn into 2,000 words.
   Now that we know that inspiration is endless, but sometimes hard to find, let's see how we can search for it.
My best "tool" are my own experiences, because that's mainly what I'm writing about. Other times, I listen to songs. My favorite ones are Natalie Merchant - My Skin and Sia - Don't bring me down. I also find Emilie Autumn to be extremely helpful when it comes to vocabulary (I've learned a few new words from her songs), but her songs are also inspiring me. 
   See? You have to find out what you like best and take out what you need from there. A little bit from everywhere.


How do you find inspiration? Is it songs? Books? Landscapes?
If there's anyone reading this, really, don't be shy. =]