I think such wonderful things about people, and I experience such beautiful feelings. I am ecstatic, happy, and yet sad, and frustrated. People don't know who I really am, no matter how hard I try to show them.

The real me, the person that's deep down inside my head, is so much more fascinating than anything on the exterior. I know this, but I always fail whenever I try to let other people see the real me. Maybe there is no real me? Maybe I'm really the mixture of the external me and the internal me that I strive to be.

I love people. Do you know that? It's so hard for me not to love people. I rent movies from Blockbuster and see people standing in line, and I feel like I can look inside them. I stand in line at the grocery store and I can tell what people are thinking and feeling. There are some people who I want to walk up to and share my soul with, and ask them to share theirs with me. I wish I could do this. The few times I've done this, unspeakably good things have happened.

I see things in my friends that I fall in love with. Little bits of themselves. But I can never connect with them. We're always just friends. When I think there's a connection, it's only me...they haven't realized it. I've only ever connected with one person, and that frustrates me, because all I want to do is connect.

It's so hard to know what to say sometimes. I'm never sure what's going too far. Most people seem to get scared of getting too close.

I want to be in love. I am in love. But I tell myself I'm not.

It's not working.

Like a box stuffed to the bursting point with exotic fabrics, or a soundproof room full of music . . . my mind is filled with questions and answers, observations and ideas, words of comfort and words of teaching, all shut up within my headtormenting me with the desire to speak. But I cannot speak.

Why is that? What fear is it that holds me back, traps my true self in a tight little knot which no one ever sees? My inability to express my thoughts is driving my mind into itself. Is this where craziness begins—with a brain that's become like an ingrown toenail?

I must learn how to speak, before it's too late. My mind must grow outward, not inward. What wisdom I have, what knowledge, must all find a way into the world . . . somehow.

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