and i am the author.

And I really want to know what it is was that was inside me last night. I felt really, really strange. I was broken. I had nothing. I was a mess. I sat there in front of my mother feeling crap. It's all fine sounding dramatic here. No one will read this properly. I don't want sympathy from a short passage which may seem either deluded or mysterious as to why I felt insignificant. I've never felt so utterly miserable as I do at the moment. Change was good. I progressed a short stepping stone. It's nothing concerning friendships. What have gone have gone. Memories are flashes of lies from what I see it now. Last night I was all focused on opening up on how I felt towards people and just telling instead of hiding away the truth. I will for one person. I will not for the other. Life is my empty pages as I see it. I'm re-writing the introduction and I am the author. No one can write my life. No one can write their own I guess.