Salty wet drops fall lightly to the paper, like the soft summer rain. Big, fat droplets. Rivers of black ink, once carefully formed letters, melt into one another, turnng my words to nonsense. Words that can be only written, but never said. Allowing the pen to mar the pure white pages, marking crudely the reasons for the tears, begins to make them still. Slowly but surely, they dry up. All that remains is a sticky feeling on my cheeks, and an ache that is part crying, part exhaustion, part despair. Catharsis, they call it, but I name it curse- that the blessed release of sleep can arrive only after I have recorded, revisited, been forced to relive that which was the source of so much pain.
Twelve months and counting. It's not so long. I'd better save- after all, I'll need somewhere to move out to, now that my presence here is so undesirable.