008. private entry. handwritten.

Submitted by Bethany Delilah Elliott. (tournure) on Wed, 2009-02-25 20:24

I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. It's hardly been two weeks, but still. They aren't giving me anything, you know? I have nothing to work with. Nothing. Some paint and a few masks, whatever beads and abandoned jewelry I can find in the streets. They've already taken the food. I guess they can only take our homes, now.

But it isn't as if I've never lived off the land before.

And I hate winter. I miss summertime. I've never felt so cold in my life, not even on those nights when Ben and I would lay out beneath the stars on the rocks. I guess nothing can hurt you in youth. I think someone famous said something like that. Or maybe I'm just going insane.

Look at me, writing to myself. I don't doubt they're searching our rooms when we're not around. I just wish they'd let me know that I'm not crazy. But I doubt they care. Insanity is what they live for, what they strive to create. And I've helped. But that's what they hired me for, isn't it? To shatter the minds of others.

Strangely, I don't regret it.

Maybe I am crazy.

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