Embrace beautiful lies - the chronic insanity of the sane

I am an emotional plagiarist, stealing other people's pain, subsuming it into my own until I can't remember whose it is any more.

I crave white on white and black, but my thoughts race in glorious technicolour, prodding me awake, whipping away the warm blanket of invisibility every time it sears to smother my mind in nothing.

She's talking about herself in the third person because the idea of being who she is, of acknowledging that she is herself, is more than her pride can take.

No one survives life.

I love you still, Against my will.

I feel like I’m eighty years old. I’m tired of life and my mind wants to die.