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Me: Wait . . . just wait . . . you asked me how I was doing, and I told you. I told you because I thought I was supposed to be honest with you. I thought you were the one person that it was safe to be honest with. But it’s beginning to sound like you’re the only one I really needed to lie to.
And, thus, this is now the way I live my life: out in the open, in the middle of everything, because the middle of the street is actually the safest place to walk.
Bring it on. Bring on the cure. Bring on the fucking happy. I’m committed.
I imagine that this is what Ophelia looked like—sane but crazy, crazy but sane.
Attempted suicide is attempted murder. I committed a crime. And I am here to be punished.
No one shall read them, and I do not care—they are not for the world’s blind eyes, but only for yours, Diary, whom I address as a friend, knowing well that you are merely the mirror of myself. No, it is the act of writing that may save me, for through my pencil the story is exorcised; left inside my head, it smothers me. May the future grant us a happier chapter . . .
‘I believe that suicide is most often committed in self-defense, Doctor.’
Some are born mad, some achieve madness, and some have madness thrust upon ‘em.
