09.22.2001

I am Shakespeare, a poor man who lived his life hand to mouth and never wronged a soul but his own. My life these last few years has been a nightmare. If indeed I truly am insane then I need to use my complexed mind in a way that is productive to my existence. I am not happy in what it has achieved me so far  — as I think I once predicted. I need to push my imagination, my ego, in another direction. I live in a world that is oppressed, and depressed. I am evidence of that in every form I choose to express myself in. I am conscious of moments that I regret even before they happen, yet I am helpless to even choose my own fate. And it is the very concept of these ideas that escapes me. Every moment I spend with anyone usually makes me want to kill myself later. But I think being alone and blinded by those negative feelings inside my head these last two years has left me feeling very lost and hopeless in the world. But the hand is near — she is so much like who I was if I knew then what I know now, and more. She is the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I already feel her confidence in me, though she will not be lenient. If I am to fulfill some sort of role in her life, I must do it carefully and with precision. I admit now that I am no good in the spotlight or in charge of anything — in any part of my life. If she wants to be an actress, I will build her a stage and bring millions to her feet. Perhaps I might even be able to express how these visions translate into feelings for her. Perhaps she may even let me, trust me enough to build that stage.

These words may be the last I ever write...