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A soul, a soul...my kingdom for a soul.

Despite the fact that I have cotton-candy flavored Bubble Tape, all is not right in the world of Ms. Nicholson. She can't seem to figure out why. Perhaps it is the fact that she cannot buy what she would like on Barnes and Noble's website without paying over her limit on her gift certificate because of shipping and handling.

Perhaps the darkness within is just shielding itself from the harsh light of day. Perhaps the darkness within me is simply my inner nocturne pulling a wool over its sensitive eyes. Or perhaps I should be paying an arm and a leg for therapy.

I feel as though I should be crying, but no tears will come.

Why do I feel in such a way?

If I could give you that particular answer...my problems would no longer exist and I would be so much more than I am.

Sometimes I dream that there really is someplace to go after I die. A good place where all is bathed in a soft glowing warmth. Then that monster inside of my head tears the image to pieces and all I am left with is eternal darkness. I wake up with tears on my cheeks but can produce no more. Hell is not fire and brimstone and whips and chains...hell is silence and total blackness and forever being alone with your thoughts. With my thoughts. My thoughts that run about as though they are living beasts, clawing at all they see. My thoughts must be blind, then, for they claw at their creator and nurturer. Their mother.

Burning. I long for burning and screams because thenIknowI'mreallyhere.

A far departure from my earlier entries, I know. But I cannot help it. I am a far departure from Elaine Nicholson. I hold the same name and face, but none of the despicable habits of hiding and masks and easy amusement.

One cannot live on hopes and dreams, but it does keep us going. I seem to be stuck on empty.

My next goal: develop an eating disorder. I wish to be as grotesque outside as I am within.