#AWESOME

I am the one, the one the unfortunate. This is my diary. My story. 24th September 2018... There are times when I feel like I am being immersed in a pool of darkness. People walk by, living their happy, normal lives, not noticing the black hole that consumes me. It's like my world is falling apart around me, and I am running out of building blocks to patch the holes up. And everyday, the pool of darkness grows, filled with my tears of sorrow. In the murky liquid, my screams of hatred emerge as bubbles, but barely surfacing.  They cannot be shown. I cannot break down. I need to keep the fake smile on my face. Nobody can know. Nobody will know. I am the master of this fake act. I have learned to do it so it convinces everybody... Even myself. This fake life is like a drug - I long for it, I crave it, I need it. But I can never get enough. I feel happy- so happy! Until the effect wears off, and the harsh reality hits me in the face again when my eyes empty th

The cracked flagstones of the country house looked disastrous with the freshly painted roof. The new owners had hideous taste, or so I thought. What was once a homey, cosy front window is now replaced with an aura of ominous mystery. Any sentimental attachment for this place had been abolished.  On a happier day, with the sun shining cheerfully through puffy white clouds onto our recently mown lawn... A memory I can no longer recollect.  Through my twisted core, the guilt of killing Fluffy and Sid, all I can see is the dilapidated remains of where I could truly relax.  I skirted around the empty log pile, which should have been full, as winter days were soon approaching. Nobody left knows how to tend to flowers. The delicate midnight blue pansies had vanished. This dropped me into an endless sense of trauma. My home had faded away.  I no longer recognised it.  Now fully grown, I can still see a ghostly figure of a child playing on the lawn: myself.  But I don't remember it... Who

There is always a point of time in a blog where no one has posted in AGGEEEESSSS, and, as my solemn duty as a guest blogger, I feel I must post something so that this non-blogging period will come to an end. It was on June 27th that I first witnessed Sir Arthur Smith. I remember he was nothing short of regal. He had on medieval knight armour and had a fine trimmed beard. He was also very tall, but not so tall that he seemed foolish or towering. Oh, and he was also very much a ghost. I discovered him in my attic, when I was looking for an old antique lamp my mother had stashed away somewhere; she now said it was valuable and a tiffany lamp. That was when I saw Sir Arthur Smith, his beautiful  sword poised over his head and his eyes stormy. Our conversation went a little like this: "I am going to kill you!" he screamed. "I beg your pardon?" "I am going to kill you!" "Well how are you going to do that if you're translucent and well...non-sub