I'm starting to get paranoid ideas about this site.

"You like to be on the edge."

Do I?
Do I?
Do I?

Fudge.

Watching blood flow is very calming. I could go into a trance-like state just focusing on that, and the red. The red is so beautiful. I become able to ignore everything else — the continuous warping and distorting of the walls, that demon hovering above my bed while I attempt to sleep, those distracting little things.. Nerve-wrecking. They make me all jumpy. On Edge.

Except, except, I don't feel the pain and nothing ever takes the edge off.

I don't know, Dean Winchester? Death. Death seems to be more fitting.

...

My mind's blank aside from morbid fantasies these days.

Why am I obsessed with Alice in Wonderland? I don't know. I don't even recall reading the book and knowing the entire story. But I know where the rabbit hole is, and I know Alice. I've seen them.

[In the book] Alice says she can't explain herself, because she isn't herself; Before that, she thinks she can almost remember feeling different. If I'm not the same, then who am I?

I feel that way. I don't recognize myself in the mirror, so I don't bother checking any more. Why look if it's not you? It defeats the purpose of the mirror. Sometimes I get hyper aware of the fact that I am inside a body. Does that make sense? I'm not sure how to put it into words. It's like a person living in another person, except I'm not a person, I'm just.. a conciousness, perhaps.

Everything is hazy and my dreams are more real than this. I'm not who people think I am. I'm not. E tells me nothing here is real and I need to wake up. I don't know if I want to. I think "here" is okay, even though it does suck quite a bit. I'm "special", so they say. (I think I'm quite mundane) E's getting frustrated. She says I have to do this.

Obviously I can't ask anyone else for their opinion on this..

She was a shadow, a lurker of the night. She rose at the hour of the witching and retired before dawn.
Her skin was pale as milk from the lack of sun; Her eyes, entrancing blackholes. Cascading raven locks
brought out her cheekbones, the bangs hitting her brows. She was a melancholic cello piece, hauntingly
beautiful. She was the gloomy afternoons of Fall 1966, quiet and perfect. She was my Eleanor, my ray of light.

Dreary; Wishing to go away forever.. Be isolated; Eat breakfast with E; Dance with N; Find A again; Fall asleep with S; All these away from the constant surveillance..