Found a bunch of my old notebooks in the box in my closet. About 10-12 years old, I didn't even know I still had them. So many memories, so many thoughts, so many songs... it was like reading someone else's diary, looking into their mind that had so much pain and despair, but still so much hope. it made me miss who I was. I feel like a shell of a person, or maybe I'm not even real (so much for being a ghost, huh?) I've come back from the dead so many times and I kept losing a part of myself every time. I'm lost somewhere in between parallel universes, in the blood stained pages, letters to someone (but let's be honest, it's always been you.) I'm here but I'm not here. I'm the voice in the back of your mind, deja-vu, memories of things that maybe never happened. Maybe this is what it's really like to be a ghost.