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Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Frustrated - with life as it is, with life I cannot achieve. I am not good at what I do: I do nothing much, and I suck at what I cannot do. Words cannot articulate how worthless I feel in this world. My anger from yesterday may have dissipated in my decision to force-sleep early, but it has precipitated into a hard numb dull ache in my chest. I am not rooted in reality, but my weakness eludes reality for me. Writing gives no respite, nothing probably will. Everything is about alleviating my sadness and anger.

This anger is probably residual from everything that has happened in the the twenty-eight and a half years of my life. I am feeling it all beginning now, right now. I am ploughing on with little idea of what I will plant after I till this infertile land.

I am a nightmare to whoever loves me.