I plan to use this as a journal

Dear Unpresidented,

I am a fool.
What is more, I think I am enjoying being a fool.
I wish there was a way I could stop but this time, it overpowers not even sanity, but even unhealthy levels of insanity.
You, I hate you. You do not know that.

I am tired. And disgruntled.

I think I need a paperback journal again, blogging is just not the same thing.

Love
Ria

Devilry

And, sometimes, you do run out of words.

It is hard to arrange mental incoherence into sensible sentences.

All you can want, at two in the night, is a little sense, and try not to submerge under the wave of sheer desperation and longing. With the advent of midnight, your mind is possessed by a soul bewitched, and things tug at your heart, heartless, ruthless, cunning and crazy.

This is not it, you are just in the throes of an obsession. The real thing is far more beautiful, far more magical, far more heartrending.

Yet, it is midnight. Things do not make sense. You are just grateful, that someone else did. Yet, this does not gladden. There is a purposeless rage, you feel thwarted, there is a sense of hurt.

It shall be morning soon, and it will bring forth rationality.

Yet, there is a certain unmitigated joy in this purposeless, hopeless madness. You have been bewitched by midnights, and you submit yourself to it.

You can not resist magic.