Dear friend,

Having an online presence has lead to a lot of people that I don't know e-mailing me wanting to get to know me better. It's kind of neat, really, the type of responses you get from people when you leave so much of yourself open to the public.

However, though I get many e-mails, there are very few that have struck my fancy. I probably reply to one out of every hundred fan-type mails I get.

--

Today was a different story. I got the most adorable e-mail from a 16 year old girl from Japan named Moeki (©! Kawaii!)... She wants to learn more English because she's going to England at the end of winter break...

=D ahh! Japanese girls are soooooo cute.

Dear friend,

It's really cold in my room -- amazing how cold it can get when no one else is living with you. =P I guess it makes sense, since everything is turned off and no one's around all day except for my fish... It makes me feel really lonely and sad, actually, I miss being able to call up a neighbor or two and have immediate company... alas, everyone is already home with their families.

bleh.

Dear friend,

I want to write about my depression, how I feel and what's going through my head as I write. However it's so hard to find the right words. --

You see, me writing about my depression is like an artist trying to describe his work. That's me -- Kim and the Great Art of Depression. The artist who feels his piece is a work comparable to the greats: the girl who knows her mind borders a thinly kept line of sanity.

Where can I begin to tell you about my great work? Perhaps, my inspiration? Sure why not -- seems like a logical enough place to start. What was it that triggered me to create this piece? A splash of red, anger turned to anguish only to descend into a never-ending hole of angst. I compare the anger to the period of time where the artist moulds the inspiration into a solid idea; the anger is the simple sketch or tune of the piece.

What happens during the period of ferverent angst? A lot, actually --naturally the exclusion of everybody in my life, and the need to alienate everyone and everything that I know. It starts as a whisper, a tiny spot of black, an asynchronous chord that soons becomes a cacophony of pain residing nowhere else but my head. It then leaks to my eyes -- or perhaps it's my eyes that are leaky. Regardless, the result is the same. At some point, the tears won't stop coming.

I want to tell you about my piece of work -- all about why, how and what it all means... but I can't. It's something you must see yourself, experience yourself, live yourself. -- Like how you can't truly appreciate a play unless you've seen it. You'd have to have seen my inspiration, heard all the tormenting words in my head, and the crescendo of negativity to truly appreciate my piece.

The tears are just a shadow of an encore; a polaroid picture of the work that will never become clear.

Dear friend,

I'm really proud of myself -- it may not be the best picture and/or layout... but I'm really proud of it because I drew it myself! Yep! That's right. I am now Kim, elf-drawer extrodinaire.

^_^; I made the eyeballs, too! But my roommate thinks they look like oyster crackers.

Dear friend,

The truth has been a re-occuring subject on this site. I struggle with it as much as I struggle with who I am, my lack of motivation and my dibilitating psychological impairment.

The other day, one of the people who most strongly urged me to always tell the truth said "why didn't you just lie?" when I became upset about a situation I had gotten into because I was a bit too truthful about something.

I've noticed, as well, that while I have made a conscientious effort to be as truthful as I can be to people, I see more of other people's lies as well. This bothers me because most of these same people during the time that I was struggling with truth claimed with ultimate self-righteousness that even bending the truth or telling half truths is something that should never be done.

I wish I didn't see other people's lies. I want to go back to non-conscientiousness, cluelesness, and blindly believe lies. Why should I not just see people for how they want to be portrayed? Why look further than what they WANT me to believe?

----

Another subject with the same name, I have been thinking about being an active participant with "The Truth" knowledge-passing thing again. After an enlightening conversation with my brother on the way up to NorCal, I realized that one of the reasons that I am afflicted so often with bronchial infections is probably because of the amount of second-hand smoke that I ingest into my body.

That, and the fact that smoking is bad for the smokers themselves. Many of the people that I have become close to since entering college smoke and it has always been fairly bothersome to me, though I try to ignore it.

I don't want to ignore it anymore.

Dear friend,

Hey girl, I miss you. It's been a while since we talked -- not just talked to each other, but really talked like we used to. Strange, how our worlds seem to be parallel yet completely separate.

I saw him the other day. No, not the one I avoid looking at and talking to, the one that I introduced you to. He seems well, rather shaggy and a little chubbier than he used to be, but well nevertheless.

That's not what I'm writing to you for, though. I'm writing to you because I miss you, and I miss your sarcastic, cynical and sweetly disturbing words of wisdom.

Ever since I realized there was something terribly wrong with me psychologically I haven't been the same. I haven't been able to write the way that I used to... I guess the illusion that I could control anything [including fictional characters] has completely disappeared for me. I wish I could talk to you again -- you always encouraged me in just the right way.

I guess things are different now, with you, with us, with our lives... It's ok, though. I still love you.