Dear Diary,
I wonder how many people think about death. And if they do, how often?
The thought has done more than "pass my mind".
Once or twice it took a stroll and sat on a bench and hung out.
Only once did I think about doing it myself.
There's a word for that but lets not get into it.
Dear Diary,
Today could be called a good day.
The sun wasn't too bright
and the sky wasn't too cloudy.
The buildings were tall
and the statues were porcelain and golden.
The hotdogs were yummy
and the park was amusing.
Because it was amazing how calm
things could actually be.
Then when it got dark and the sky was lined with stars and the streets lined with lamps,
it was actually very pretty.
And the sweets were what they are.
And the vendors did what they did.
Dear Diary,
I've got a headache today.
From cruising down the Lincoln Tunnel
and racing down through the NJ Turnpike.
Traffic jams up the road.
Traffic jamz killz.
And bumpy roads dont help at all.
Dear Diary,
I'm not done yet.
I'm not done living.
I've only lived my life to the semi-fullest
and that's not enough.
I want to do more.
To go places.
To make memories.
To prove people right.
To prove them wrong.
To let them know how much they mean.
To me.
Dear diary, I'm not done. It's not time to move on. It's time to move on with my life.
