What is a blog? Something people us to log their lives, a journal, or a diary? What can I possibly blog about?

I could mention the fact that I haven’t been able to sleep properly, that the days I have class I end up spending a good portion of the night just sitting or lying on my bed counting, that on weekends or days I do not have class I fall out cold at 2 in the morning to wake up after 8 hours of sleep. And that even though I didn’t sleep well last night I still managed to crawl out of bed to get ready to go to school, dress nicely and put on make up, just because I had an interview with a professor for an investigation project.

I could also tell you that I received a call that I had hoped for, but got it at the wrong time and as much as I wanted to talk back to the person and reassure them, I couldn’t. I could say how the call made me feel, maybe even word out how much I smiled at the hope of finally having something be repaired in the past crappy months.

I could type about how many tears I shed when I remembered a little girl with a lively smile, and I could quote my pleas to a god I so long ago stopped believing in. I could also tell you the time span from the last time I ever thought of praying, or pleading, and for what reasons.

I could explain in great detail how it felt like to be swallowed by pure rage at the cheerful disposition of others. How thick and heavy it felt to hate people just because I am too proud to speak of my problems. How hard it is to swallow, almost as painful as if I were to speak of even a bit of what goes on in my life. That the few problems I do speak of are only portions of what really has gone on, but not the entire story.

Maybe go into an in depth explanation or maybe type up my biography on my thoughts of my mother not loving me or my daddy not caring.

Or mention how my day started relatively well, and turned bad but there are points in between those bad moments that I could find some solace and comfort in places you wouldn’t have thought of before. In the memory that even if your parents might not love you there is someone that will always cherish you. Or with a missed phone call and a call back that even though you thought they wouldn’t they still did and you were able to smile at their voice. Maybe a crack pun you didn’t think funny was able to get a full on blast of laughter from someone that rarely smiles.

But who wants to read that? Can you honestly tell me that you want to read the woes of other people and comment on it? Or is it that you want to feel better about yourself knowing someone else has it worse than you? I’ll write you a prose about my abandonment and poems about my desperate search for someone to help me, but why bother? It makes no difference, its not like you could help me. You could try but I never will allow it. You see that’s the difference between you and me, no matter how hard you try I will never accept it. I’d rather be buried alive that is my arrogance, which is what I will allow myself in order not to get help from others.