God I wish I could write... I never do anymore, there's never a creative moment that I don't consciously initiate, no inspiration. Where did it all go wrong? When did I let it get away from me? Where could it all have got to anyway? I never have anything to say, that's the problem. I have no message, no meaning, no vehemence.

I keep getting these strange flashes of reality cracking through my insanity and just being </i>beautiful at me. The gardens, full of plants all just trying to live in the jumble, the leaves on the ground that fell from the trees last fall, dried up again after the rains and still crunching under the heels of the youthful population that occupies this walkway where I go from school to life as it will be, the parts that won't change just because I stop living the career of a learner. I never want to stop, but even as the leaves fall and turn to dirt I must cycle into something else with the passing of time. Life sucks, but I think I'm almost more scared of it getting worse. This I can bear, I'm doing it right now, surviving, so I guess I'll keep on.