50/50.

And all that's missing is a spade. No, not the suit from a deck of cards. A spade that is used to dig a hole in the ground. Deep enough to bury everything that is within you. Things you never want anyone else to know. Secrets shoveled and buried safely along with the maggots and other soiled living creature. Once you've concealed the hole, and a new patch of innocent green grass grows on top of it. It'll be as if, untouched. Like an airtight container that is gasping for air, feeding on only the air within the walls of the container. Slow death they call it. Secrets. Do you have your own grave of secrets?

I miss writing about things that people can hardly understand. I miss expressing myself in a way that I do not care about what other people may think of me. I miss forming sentences that expresses an image of something so vivid that it scares the core out of myself. The level of wanting to express is at its maximum level of capacity and I'm afraid that I might just explode. Splattering the juice of everything that is within. Not.a.beautiful.sight. What do you miss?

It's June already and I'm not panicking for exams. I need therapy maybe.