What I feel right now is a little eensy-weensy bit of fear.

Maybe it isn't so strange. But somehow I feel this sense of loss...

It was all those thoughts, in the past, of pain and fear and darkness and suicide and whatnot, that made me develop my writing a lot more smoothly because nothing drives eloquency out of you like sheer intense feeling, and the most sheer intense feeling you can get constantly is, well, pain. (If any of you here experience truly inspiring intense joy all the time, I would really like to hear from you. Nobody? That's what I mean.) Over the months I was depressed, I did a lot more work on my inner side (I mean the kept-away-from-public side) than I'd done the past ten years. I wrote a lot of deadly depressing poetry, which my teacher complimented me on, and did some angsty pictures I really liked, stuff that was much better than what I'd ever done in Art Club. One of my poems I turned into a song, which I figured how to play on the piano. I also started blogging, and for the first time in my life people told me they like my writing. A lot of things hinge on my pain.

Now I'm afraid that I'll never be able to write as well, think as deeply, or come up with anything worth drawing any more.

Let time prove if this fear is unfounded.