These are just some of the writings that I scribbled while in the psych ward:
-These people are all searching for something, their emotions just spill out of them in waves: a thick, billowing cloud of blueish, black smoke rising out of an old brick chimney in that time of fall where all the leaves are completely vanished from the trees and everything is dead and cold and silent.
-In each of their stories, I see a part of myself as I am sure maybe the more sane people here see themselves in as well. Regardless of age, race, background, we are the same. There is that little voice in all of them/us.
-Wayco (we called him Wacko), a paranoid schizophrenic that none of us got along with is really just trapped inside of a body. A mound of flesh, blood, organs, a bag of bones that just clank along with the everyday movements. And a heart that somehow keeps beating, pounding his mind into a small room in his head. A heart that somehow with the all the pain and stresses of his delusional world, keeps on beating as if propelled by something unknown. Why do I find that this is true sickness?
-I have thought about all the men I have slept with. The 7 of them. And I wonder when I am with my current love if while under his body, in the brief moments that I look up at him, does he see all the others that have panted above me, in my eyes?
More random to come.