It is so hard at times to speak the truth. A million different reasons enter my head for pressing my case, but the lines of communication are severed, till I'm reduced to one sided conversations and the half remembered memories of a future it seems I'll never have but want so dearly. Once I lived with a multiplicity of selves, each one clamouring against the other, rising to Hell, till all I could hear was the white static of my mind, blind to the truth seared across the sky. Now my mind is clear, with one gentle, soothing voice washing away the demons; but not the mistakes.

One for sorrow, two for tears, three for shame.

It is terrible to lose once, twice is folly, three times oblivion.

I am reduced to this blank, black page of white scribbles, hoping that you'll hear me. A diary of my torment and hope written across fiber optic lines, strands of myself stretching to infinity. It still seems futile, like holding onto a whisper of a dream when waking, only I can remember everything with crystal clarity.

My existential grief is leaving me now, slowly the pieces are falling softly back to earth, falling softly to the ground.

I hope you can hear them land.