I need help. I'm trapped. But then, aren't we all? There's nothing I can do about anything, besides try to forget and that just won't work. It's so easy to forget who you are in this sick fairytale. I've got bad feelings, I've done bad things.

I watched the red white and blue inaugration ceremony today whilst very sick for many different reasons. It didn't make me feel any better, only worse. We're all fucked, when it comes down to it, some guy is in charge of the planet who can barely construct a simple sentence, and we've got a mass media that are ignoring huge amounts of the world. Apparently there were protests. I didn't see that on the news. Did you?

I can't help but think that things around me are making me sick - people I know (you know who you fucking are) and people I don't, the feeling that I'm going to be in the same situation forever, the emptiness that material things seem to have now, the fact that I'm being lied to, and worse, I'm lying myself.

"I'm fine," I said. "Don't worry, I'll be ok."

I stay awake for hours on end, hours upon hours of thinking every single fucking shadow is going to kill me, and every time I look over my shoulder I'm seeing things I know for a fact are not real but I can't help it, I see them anyway. I'm taking so many drugs that I'm forgetting my own name. "Katie" no longer even feels like a real word when I say it, but I have to say it to convince myself I'm here.

Sometimes I wish I was religious, I really do. I spent half an hour helping the most religious person I know clean a feather because she believes that if you find a white feather, it means your guardian angel has been nearby. I wish I had something to believe in like that, but all I see all around me offers no hope and I can't force myself to believe in anything else. I deal only in this supposed reality, when I don't know anything for sure. For all I know, the beliefs that I can't make myself keep could be the only things that are real. Everything else...well, the way my reality falls I could have imagined it. I might not even be writing this now.

I'd like to think I'm going to look back on this in the future and think, "oh, what a strange stage of my life I was going through then, but it's over now." I can't see that happening. Normality moves further and further away every day.

I'm so tired of thinking about my "self" and my problems. I've been writing again, a lot, and drawing, but I don't have access to a scanner, and to be honest I think if I posted any of the things here, people would begin to think I'd gone over the edge. I read them and I think it myself. It's killing me - every word I write seems to drain my soul even more and I don't think there's much left to be drained anyway.

But having neglected DA for such a long time, I felt I should write something, anything. Thank you to anyone who has read this far, and I apologise for having put such miserable drivel onto your screen. If you've read this far, you're a very, very patient person. I'm also sorry to all those who have produced deviations lately - DA doesn't show any pictures on my current computer, but when I am out of the contract I am in (ending in July) I should have a better connection and will be able to see all your wonderful works.

Just a little piece of Anno to soothe my soul. If you've never heard of Anno Birkin I beg you to read his poetry - you can find it on [link] . Please, please do. He's saved my life so many times, although his tragic tale is one that makes me feel I'm wasting my life in many ways. Like all the brightest stars he burned away too soon, he was too beautiful for this earth and for us to comprehend. His words were the words of youth, his anger and love merged to make something I could only dream of creating. In his short life, he created more than ten thousand adults in ten thousand lifetimes, and for him to be forgotten would be one of the worst tragedies. He should still be alive, but in the unfair circles of life and death he has moved on without us.

"My imminent casket is cold, now these
baskets of flames that I hold give no heat.
I'm giving out tongues to fellows whose names
should be beaten and bellowed and sung,
but whose skins are stretched out in the sun
and then hung in the rain on the frame of Utopia.

There's a young man with God's face,
aware of his place and peculiar nature,
who features now often in dreams -
we go off through the seams, hand in
hand to my softening centre.

Our insular form is a fallacy, born
from our subjectivity, torn by and bound to divinity,
manifest in all the universe's cursed movements.

Hail the hearse of fleeting moments, always
packed with the condolences
of those who never acted on their instinct,
those suspended always at the brink of their existence.
Well, now I shall dispense with what I think, and sink
below the waves of inpulse that engulf and bust my bones,
and that disgust those not accustomed
to the throes of such abandon."

Good night xx