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Dear Diary, December 30, 2015
In such a diverse world we learn a lot in our lifetimes. Our lifetime measured in age would be scaled by, let’s say, time. By the time you turn 25 you are supposed to learn all that you can bookwise, but by the time you turn 50 you are supposed to practice and experience all that you have learned. By the time you are 70, well, that’s the time you have to pass on all your wisdom and to teach others. But little do we know that most humans don’t follow that rule book. If you don’t pass on what you have learned you’ve basically wasted your entire life. Think of it as not continuing the cycle of knowledge. Like you’re withholding vital information from someone who could exercise it in their lives. What the human race fails to acknowledge is that life is just a cycle. You learn, practice, experience, and teach. Or rather, in a more direct sense, you would be born ~Erica Cardona Dear Diary,
I know not what to do; I have both the world at my hands and nothing at all. I try to kill all bits of hope because I know there is none, but a dreamer’s gotta dream. Then again I have to do it; I have to murder the beast that claws at the cage that safeguards my soul. My heart no longer matters; it’s just a decoy. After all you can’t break a broken heart, so therefore do what you want with it. Now my soul is hidden where not even I know. So you can try, but you can’t hurt me. I’m bullet proof… ~ Erica Cardona Dear Diary,
Why dwindle beneath the sunlight, why ponder behind the curtains--such heavy thoughts never spoken. Always using what's not there, always searching for the forbiddeness. The sun peeks through the leaves of the great white oak. Suddenly silence falls, yet the screeching of your thoughts never settle. Forever searching for the silence... ~ Erica Cardona |
Dear Diary,
Every child deserves a good, sturdy, and loving home. No one deserves to live in a house where the walls scream and doors are filled with tears, and how about the windows that cry out for help? But when DCF comes, nobody’s home, and the truant officers come to collect their biddings. But the fantasy fades and you pretend the outside world can’t touch you. The reality of it all seeps in through your sliced arms and legs. You sit in the tub carving your regrets into your skin, but that won’t help. You can’t escape the asylum they’ve raised you in. You try to force the pain out and end it all because you can’t take the memories anymore. As you collect your belongings, ready to run, the alcohol-soaked rug brings you back with guilt. The bottles all over the floor trip you; you can’t bring yourself to leave your mother. Even though she threw liquor bottles at you and never missed, and paid others to take your innocence away, she was still your mother and she would be all alone. Out of nowhere you hear a voice saying, “trust me child; you’ve done nothing to deserve this…but until death do us part.” ~ Erica Cardona Dear Diary,
I am one who dreams along the cracked pavement, one who sees the truth beneath the pounds of make up and extensions. I am not worthless, I am not dull nor lifeless, I am priceless and full of life and light with the hands of a healer and the mindset of a shark, I belong with the stars instead of the dirt and I don't care what they say, they see a girl that sings at the moon, I am a a girl who sings with the moon, one who instead of staying up til midnight thinking of a guy finds a passion for writing along the stars. And I know for a fact that... ~ Erica Cardona |