This isn't where I want to be, standing on this ground, hoping for a new foundation that has yet to be found. Something inside is always spinning, I'm always dizzy; thisty, reaching for another glass of water, making ten a day; don't dehydrate, keep drinking, stay cool; drown yourself for all they care, it might be good for you after all. Drink tear drops and rivers and oceans; drink laughter and sorrow and promises unkept; drink dreams and loves and stories; drink until your drunk; I know I did. And while I wait for my mind to subdue, I beach myself outside to dry, baking and letting my skin darken, change; maybe the better me will come out; maybe a better face will create its self out of sunshine. How many times do you tell yourself tomorrow? How many times have you known it should have been today? Yesterday? Last week? Last year? How much hope can one lost dreamer have, for every dream is as fragile as an ice cube, melting in the heat of the pressure of reality; society; trust; understanding. How much is left? How much hope can you hold in the palm of your hand before it leaks through your finger tips and you get to say 'I told you so' one more time? Well I don't want to hear it, and I don't want to be here, today, tomorrow, yesterday; I should have been gone, I should have been in love, I should have been happy; tomorrow. So thirsty...always so thirsty...en eternity to be parched and dry, drink and cry, let the words within me flow with no where to go, spilling out over the edges in a waterfall into an ocean polluted by the things I don't dare speak of any more, reflecting the faces I can't visualize and can't bring myself to dream of. Why does an ice cube taste so good when its very make-up is so tasteless? Why is the solid always better than the idea? Or has the idea always been first choice? And I can't say more, my lips are parched and my voice is choked, gradually dimming in the back of your mind where the rest of your worries will drown me out until the next time you're thirsty, the next time you're hungry for the refreshment of the solid that melted through your fingertips. I went back a year ago in my old journal. I was so sad. I remember the day perfectly, everything that happened, and the memory of it has almost come upon me, changing my mood from 'ok' to sad. Where is my hero? Seriously, where is that shoulder to cry on? I've kept one of these stupid journals for over two years now. Despite how horrible everyone says they are, everyone always comes back to them. You know why? Because it's communication without communicating. That's all it is. And you want to know something? I don't even know who I'm communicating with any more.