These words; they do not feel mine. They feel constructed and organised, which i am not. They lack the emotion i would like to convey in them. They feel empty and meaningless.

I feel like writing a story. I'm not gonna, though.

Instead, i'll find something else of interest on this "internet" thingy.

~~

For those who don't know, i have two other journals. One is "boy".

When i read them, it's like i'm reading someone else, not me. The stuff in boy; it feels amazing, and i feel envious to thr writer, for being able to conjour up so much feeling. But, the writer is me!

And talkingclock. The last thing i wrote is just plain... well, i don't even know. It doesn't feel like me, but i know it is.

These are sides of me i still don't realise i have. When i look at myself, i see a dependant, immature, horny self-obsessed teenager. These two journals are not by that part of me; this one is, but they are not. They're completely different to this. Occasionally, i "get into" different moods, and i write, here, as i would in them. That's when what i wanna say doesn't fit in either journal. I think i did that more before i had talkingclock. But, that is unimportant.

When i read, or, seldomly, write, in the other two, i see a strong, indepandant, wise character. I know that's the real me, the side of me that i try so hard to be.

I know, this is a little incoherant. It's an attempt at an explanation, but it's still turning sour.

I suppose, though, they are equally distributed; if it was different, i would be either too "deep", or too "shallow". It just feels so strange to know that, inside of me, there is a great writer, a brilliant artist, a unique person. On the outside, though, i still feel pathetic. Another.