March Twenty-third, Two thousand, nine.

This day will fade, like all the thousands before.

Sometimes it's hard to just let it be that way.

I look outside at the beautiful city scape and remind myself I have to work to make the money to make the city. It's just a vicious cycle.

I can make myself happy by doing miscellaneous things and then I remember why I am here in the first place, and where I'm going back to after two months. And I am saddened to leave my new happiness, and I am saddened upon her happiness and then her hole I am supposed to replace.

It's just impossible. I don't even have money to buy her a present. That's not what she wants anyway. Here, have a small bottle of lotion as a sign of my gratuity and love, mother. May you remember this specific bottle of lotion for the rest of your days and not lump this particular birthday with any other. But she wont, because I'll leave right after. In fact, I wont even be with her on her birthday.
It's like I've run away and blamed it all on them, and I don't want to go back - go back to the love and acceptance and understanding and the unconditional. I'd rather be exploring the unknown and forgetting my past, 'cause it'll forget me someday, and everyone is temporary in each others' reality.