what I love. and why. I miss writing, constructing grammatically poor sentences of heartfelt thoughts.
But I know why I do disappear.
I like to pretend all is good.
I like to hide from myself.
I know this does no good, because right there I am. But still I pretend.
Like the girl on stage who pulls her dress over her head, because if she can't see you, you can no longer see her.
So, perhaps I need to be here. Because I need this. Even if no one else ever reads this, I need this.
Simply, put I do.