A man walked through my back yard the other day. My fenced-off back yard. He looked as though he were eyeing the heater-meter outside, but as I only saw him halfway there, I ran upstairs in a panic.
His outfit had been black, and I had seen nothing on it to say it was a uniform. He even had the black winter hat on, which freightened me more. I looked out the upstairs windows, first to the front of the house. No company vans. No trucks. Nothing. So I run to the other side to see if I can't see him again. Check once more for a uniform. He is no where to be seen.
I have four knives in my room, and one sword. I grab the knives and equip myself. Just in case. I am a weak little girl, and a coward, after all.
My cell phone is downstairs. I'll have to get back in front of that open window if I want to reach it. Or, I could hide out and hope I'm wrong. I go into my mother's room and grab the bar we use as a hammer. The only thing I could want for now is a gun, but we have none.
So I head downstairs.
No signs that anything has happened. I sneak over and close the curtains. Now I have the ability to hide, if nothing else.
I peek through the windows, first in the back, then the front. I see no one on either side of the house.
Maybe he really was from the company, just there to check the meter.
I sit back on the computer, bar beside me and knives in every pocket. I don't touch the phone.
He never returns.
Funny, as I sit here today, looking out that same window. Will I see him again? Surely it is too cold, now. There is snow on the ground. Ice. Will he be back? Was he from the company?
I wonder.
I am a coward, after all, and my imagination runs wild.
I sit without my knives again, and no bar. The phone is beside me, as always, but no protection. I look out the window every two minutes, completely paranoid. I hope, at least, that it is paranoia and unfounded.
And I write.
People think I lie in my journal. That I write stories and plays, but nothing of truth.
They are wrong. Everything I have written in my journals has happened. Maybe I write it in my perspective, and maybe I write it in the style of a short novel, but it is all true.
I have yet to lie.
I simply... drag out the full story. Twist the words to sound like one thing, and in the end you see that it was really something else entirely. I sound like I am cutting myself, and in the end it is all artwork. I sound like I am being attacked, and all it is was my imagination running me away.
But I do draw the cuts onto myself. I do imagine sometimes that he has come back. These are things that bother me. Things that go through my head.
And what better use of a journal than to release and share these tiresome workings of my mind?
I am dying, along with ever other creature in this world. The least I can do is have my fun in enduring it.
Have fun reading the insanity of my mind, for I am thankful to be able to tell that it is not the reality of the world outside of my mind.
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Glee... my image seems not to work... emo
月に代わってお仕置きよ。