It is the best of times. It is the worst of times.

Things move uneasily beneath the surface. I know now how mute people feel. People who have no idea of the concept of verbal expression. I cannot express what I cannot comprehend. Nameless, shapeless, dark fears. Bright sunny days. Long dark nights.

I used to think I wrote well. Now I realise I'm full of (sh)it. Good writers are those who can portray their emotions through their words. Whacked by my own yardstick.

I wonder if this is how it feels when your world begins to crumble. All the truths and the lies swim together to make a large collage. It's tough to separate them, you know. Live the lie. Truth be told, I don't know what the truth is anymore.

Help.

"You ask about my consience
And I offer you my soul
You ask If I'll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I'll grow old
You ask me if I known love
And what it's like to sing songs in the rain
Well,I've seen love come
And I've seen it shot down
I've seen it die in vain"