I had tried to be happy tonight. I actually forced myself to make atleast a grin. Life is disgusting tonight, perhaps, if that is a more appropriate word to use. I should not have postponed my travel last friday evening. I've just actually finished two comedy movies from HBO, and none changed my moods. I'm dealing with inexplicable misery again. It's been haunting me like a werewolf at the woods during the absence of the moon. If I could tell what's there at the back of my mind, I might probably cure this melancholy, but there's no telling everybody why. My friend would always say I'm being sentimental, 'guess ure right Vince, pare, you're definitely right. I can't deny this now, and the fact of the matter is I'm over doing this now.

I've cursed writing some years ago, I had tried to evade this before, I hated my poems, my stories, but then it's my constant companion, the long time bestfriend I can ever have and treasure forever. But this makes me lunatic, as I've always been saying. Like tonight, I'm supposed to be just plain watching tv, but I found this ballpen and paper, rather I sought for them, so now I'm writing again, and feeling so helpless ever again. I said I'd rather finish reading this book beside my pillows, but it's Emily Dickinson's poems and letters dealing about her semi-tragic life. God I'm so nuts.

What could be the best possible cure for this? Help me before I got a stupid answer at the back of my head. Catch me dreaming in the rye.