I have been neglecting this diary. My life has been so . . . full lately.

Things are happening, all sorts of things, events and occurences and emotions and mistakes and pain and pleasure . . . . i feel wonderful and horrible and alive.

I'm no saint. I never have been, I have never claimed to be. Yet somehow it amazes me that i have in me the capacity to cause pain. I'm used to causing my own pain not other peoples.

I feel so guilty, i shouldnt, . . . no i should. I did it wrong, all wrong, horribly wrong. Bu thow was i supposed to know the right way to do things?

I knew what i had to do, but i took my time . . . . there are two running theories about pain, physical pain, about riopping off bandaids or applying hydrogen peroxide to a cut. you either do it all at once, rip the bandaid off , douse the cut in the solution. or you do it careful, slowly peel the bandaid away, just dab the peroxide on the wound.

I never could decide which was better. I am not even sure which i did.

I make alot of mistakes, and sometimes i think that when i try to correct them it just makes them worse for everyone around me.

but i am alive

and that fills me with a strange joy, no matter what.

because i feel real and alive and human . . . . i havent felt like this in a long time. I feel like . . . .i belong here. In this place. Its a strange feeling, but beautiful. I think it feels better to be forgiven than to have never sinned at all. I would rather be horribly flawed then perfect, because erfection draws this strange line between you and th rest of the world. That is why i didnt have any real friends when i was younger, why i still dont have many, because othe rpeole think i am very intelligent, which i won't deny, i am an intelligent person, but they all put me on this pedastool mentally and i cant conenct with anyone because they have these presentiments about what i am. I cant hurt them but they can hurt me

that is the risk i took, when i mader eal friends, real enemies. i took the risk of causing injury.

i have never wanted to cause emotional pain, ever. I have wished horrible things on people, but never to be the direct cause of them. I dont try to hurt anyone . . . . but somehow i do. It is all strange, foreign.

but what is foreign can be so wonderful. You can touch your own face, run a finger across your own lips, but if another hand does it . . . its different, amazingly different. What you feel emotionally and physically changes when it comes from an outside source . . . there has always been this difference ebtween the pain i cause myself and the pain sent to me by outside sources . . . the foreign pain is somehow . . sweeter.

because it is real and natural

because its human . . . . i think i am human again, a person with skin and bones and flesh and breath and pain and pleasure and all of it . . . i can be the cause and i can take the efect . . . its nice.

very nice