June 12, 1930.

My life is all just a screwy nightmare. You know: the kind where you can’t really tell if you’re awake or not, you have no clue what’s going on and you can’t help but move in slow motion. The kind where you feel like you’re drowning in the air; going blind in broad daylight. But it’s not because I grew up in the streets after my parents were blown to bits before the war even truly started. My childhood was probably about as great as someone could ask for. What a “privileged” adult would look away from with tears was just a crazy, exciting adventure to a kid. No, I used to love life. Back when I had purpose. Back when I had hope. But isn’t that how fate works? You dream you’re in a tropical paradise only to wake up and find out you’re swimming in muck.

My head is killing me.

The sunset never fails to take my breath away. Even when I’m as depressed as now. Something about how the colors are so lush, yet remain intensely vibrant despite being cast by the light of a sinking sun has always resonated with me. Maybe because it reminds me of the way my own heart is setting. Or maybe because somehow, someway, it sparks a little ember in me that knows that even though I’ve destroyed my life so far, maybe, just maybe I can make the rest of it worthwhile.

But that’s just words. Just something that Evalyn said. Something that I wish could be true. Appropriate. That is what her name means after all: desire. I desire to live. I want to love. I wish that I could hope. But those words have no true meaning for me.

She told me she would save me. She can’t. I no longer have a soul to save. I wonder if I ever did.