A slight feeling of melancholy descends upon me yet again. What I had thought had fled from me the night before has come about once more. I cannot say what has brought this about, neither can I say why I feel this way. But one thing is for certain, I'm not feeling alright at all.
It feels as if something bad has happened, but I don't want to believe so. I cry at the thought that perhaps something might have happened to you, and that I won't be there. That I may never see you ever again. That you will never speak to me again. That I will never hear from you, or feel you, or touch you ever again... It drives my mind to insanity, and shatters my heart so much so that I don't want to live anymore...
And if I do not get things straight with you before then, then on my own head be it. I will bear the specter of regret for as long as I live, which shan't be long if truly something terrible did happen to you...
For one who doesn't believe in God, I hope, I pray now with all my heart that nothing has happened to you...
Because...
To the madness of my mind,
Only deep purposeful sleep is kind.
To soothe the sorrows of the day,
Only to start the endless dismay.
Rough touches of hurtful glass,
That draws sreams of blood it does.
To numb that which words cannot,
To make peace which is most sought.
And cracked this porcleain doll shall be,
But not for the cruel world to see.
Only to the One who can appreciate,
This little doll that was miscreate.
