I write, it is my solace, the pen is a close friend. It listens to my pain, recording it forever in its paper memory. I used to think myself so alone. I wrote, and found comfort in my poetry. With some I shared my writing, some even understood. I found tho, as I read the thougths of others, I heard my own voice coming from the page. I hear now others who read my writing talk of these echos. Often I have mused upon my insparation to write. It is like a moment of clarity, sitting with the pen as the words flow out from you. Almost like it isn't me writing it at all.

Have you ever heard, in moments of deep contemplation, the wispering of your soul? I often record those whispers, call them poems. They hurt to read, as if reliving the pain that inspired them. In these moments, I look into that which I truly am, and see that I am not compleat. There is a yawning hole where somthing happy should be. Yet that nothing is something, my muse I would almost call it. For in this hole the whispers echo, and I wonder if they are even my voice.

I wonder, if there can people who share a soul. Maybe I am vain to call myself a poet, but I do. As a poet when I read the dark and painful crys of some others here. I am disturbed, for they are not just words for me, not even meaningful words. They are the whispers I hear within my heart. I read Bethany's poem, about her armour, armour that I wear. Or disgracfulfaith's poem on masks, which reviels the one I hide behind. Is it to much for me to believe that this is less from similar lives? More that this hole inside of me, is not mine alone, this soul inside of me is not mine alone? I do not say this soul is shared by everyone, for there must be so many souls. This one however, feels to... used, to be just mine. As if I had already lived so many times, but I am still so young. Mind still questing, but my soul tired and disparing.

This new belief, strikes my greatest fear. That some one else dances with the demons I fight. Someone else feels the emptyness, that cannot be filled. I am caught between rejoycing, and crying out in terror. I know I am not alone, this comforts me, because I am not alone. Others feel this torment. Have you ever had the feeling, someone else feels what you are feeling? I have, I do, and it frightens me.

Writing this has been hard, like somthing my mind was willing me not to do. even these few sentences have taken hours upon hours. At times I cannot even type my for the shaking of my fingers. I don't know what to make of this. Maybe it is just the feeling this day is giving. Maybe not, Maybe I am just too afraid that writing this will make it true. Or maybe hoping that it is. I am so confused.

-Wy?