Everyday I am judged. Everyday I am ridiculed. I wish I could run, I wish I could hide. I wish I drown these feelings in ink. Mask them in lined paper masks. NO more to say, I am losing everything. Goodbye.
I can't escape this feeling of dread, of pain, finding peace only in writing, the pen is my morphine, the paper is my joy. I mask my symtoms in this book, but there is no cure.
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