signs | journal entry
Every time I close my eyes, that damn painting is all I can think of.
This is a strange feeling. Writing in a journal. I don't think I've done this since I was a kid and we had journal entries set as compulsory school assignments. Then again, half the time I don't think I really did those either. By the looks of it, there's not much else to do around here, and this was one of the few books on the bookshelf. For all I know, some quack is going to read it as soon as I leave the room. I wouldn't put it past this place. My room's always pristine and tidy no matter what state I leave it in. Clean towels and everything. I guess that'd be the work of that creepy maid who I see from time to time. She must be satisfied uncovering the painting every time I push something in front of it. Maybe it's just one of the perks of the job?
It's always there. And I swear, if it's the last thing I see before I go to sleep at night, I end up having some fucked up dream about the accident even if it was...a while ago. I'm not dwelling on the past on purpose. That'd just be stupid. And counter-productive. It's just almost like this place is meant to remind me of everything that's shit about, well, everything. The books don't help. 'Who needs the future?' Who needs a book called 'Who needs the future?'
If this place is meant to be some kind of psychiatric rehab, it's not exactly doing its job. I think it might be easier if Grant or Griff were here instead of abandoning me. I didn't realise I was such a downer. I must've been easy to get rid of.
I just don't understand why they both packed bags as well. If they're not here, then, well, where the hell are they?
It's just...every time I close my eyes, my family's all I think of. And that's rich considering as of now I haven't really got one.
I guess I miss
Fuck it. I could be doing something productive right now. I'm just...yeah, alright.