Writing for me is something i need. It is like breathing. If I can't write, I am not completely happy. I figured I would start an online journal to practice. And it is much faster to get my thoughts out, i type faster than i write. :) 

 My problem is this, there is a story that I need to tell. It is an obsession. It is always there, it has always been there. I am just having problems getting it out. Writers block. Yes, I am suffering from it and i hate it.

I will tell you this much, it is a story of love, hate, anger, loss, faith and hope. A story of self worth and self appreciation. It is almost like i am the vessel. Inside i hold the words that could be someone elses redemption, and as well as my own.

If i believed enough in ghosts i would say that i am possessed by another and they want me to tell their story, for the story is not my own, but then again it is close enough.

 Yes, i know i am overthinking things again. that is something i do too often. That often ruins things for me. i think too deep about something, it will make something quite simple into something complicated. As does the character. You see, she too worries too much. She is afraid. She is afriad of herself, only she cannot see it. She is afraid to let someone else see who she is. She is a professional at observation. She can sum a person up within five or ten minutes of a conversation. She is beautiful and she knows it, sometimes though, she needs to hear it. She needs to hear it in a different way. Don't call her beautiful, show her beautiful. That is how you will reach her, although she is far away. She does not want to be reached. She will fight you if you get to close. Much like a wounded animal.

You cannot tell this by looking at her. She blends in well. The typical girl next door. She goes to highschool, is quite the social bug. Deep friendships rarely last long. She finds that she is bouncing from friend to friend. She is looking for something real. You could not tell by looking at her that she cries herself to sleep at night or has cuts on her arms from a sharp razor. You could not tell by looking at her that she is alone, she is sad and hurt. You could not tell by looking that she does not feel loved and that she no longer cares. She has a bright smile and sparkling eyes, but if you look harder, maybe you really could see into her world. It is then that you realize your world is not much different from her own.