Scarifice under guise.

I'm writing... I'm feeling... I'm thinking.
I'm walking... I'm breathing... I'm hoping for the best.


I know somewhere deep down inside. I try to ignore it but it nags at me. I have no reason to feel this way. I have no reason to be this way, but I am. I'm at the next stage. Everything is going well. According to plan. Everything is perfect, but I can't shake this feeling.

I could have so much more, I could have everything more and more. I could have my wildest wishes come true, I could have the moon and the stars in the palm of my hand. Some how I dont think that it'd be enough. I don't think anything will ever be enough. Not for me. Not for my lust. Not for my needs... Not for my wants...

It's started again, aching, wanting, needing, hoping, searching; eating away at everything. I know. I won't do anything about it. I know. It could be so much better. I know. It doesn't really matter. I know, and I can't convince myself that I don't.