This plate is Want. Want is a beautiful feeling. I spent time with people I love. They demanded me to Want, so they could Want with me. I think that's love.

I've missed writing. I wish I could explain to you how wonderful it is to me to feel like this.
Writing is an oddly narcissistic thing, isn't it? The recording of one's own thoughts... talking to myself. It's enough to bring that ever brewing pot of self-loathing to a raging boil. But I guess that's fine. It's actually sort of a comforting feeling; like the pain of a pinch that tells me I'm awake.

My heart awakens at midnight. When I'm alone. When every other mind is busy with another world.
I can finally think clearly. During the day I feel like I'm living in a fish tank where people are banging and tapping on the glass all day. I can't remember, I can't think.

I feel like I'm waking up without memories everyday. I wake up willing myself back to sleep; my dreams don't scare me anymore, vivid and cruel as they sometimes are. At least I know that world. I know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing there.

Here, everything seems so far away, like seeing and hearing everything underwater.
I eat. Constantly. Smell and taste; the two things that my dreams can't contain. It grounds me.

Sitting still and writing is one of the best and most horrifying things I've done to myself.
To sit and look back and realize.
The terror I've been running away from
is the blank space where I should be.
devoid of thought, devoid of feeling, devoid of opinion.
There's nothing wrong. Nothing happened. There's just nothing.
Where am I?

I feel like stone. It's so hard for me to remember the reasons why I need to move, it's almost painful.

Want. Want is a beautiful feeling. It's such a relief to truly want something. We are alive because we Need. But we live because we Want. How do I Want again?