I haven't written anything in a very long time, but yet here I am at it again. I wonder if I can't figure out why things seem to be so inept to me. I wish I would catch a break, do something noteworthy, and find out what I can do to make things seem real.

In my life, I write and write, and try to find solace in the one thing that still makes me human or rather, let's me believe that I m human still. And yet it offers me no relief in this world I reside in currently. I can't help but to reign everything in and try to make the best of the madness around me. It's never my choice to be where I am, and everyone around me wonders why I choose the roads I travel because when I find myself, trying to choose differently those differences are never what pan out for me for the better. I search for things like any other person in life—happiness firstly, and then truth next.

I have endured much loss since my last submission my mom has passed from this life into the way beyond this world. I know not where or any, I only know I will miss her as I always do. I feel like I usually do. My father died with her. He seems a fragment of his former self and, of course, you can never see yourself without seeing yourself. And I see him so very clearly because he exists to me with some bit of foreignness I have never known in him until now...

I wish to rage against the machine I have become and tell him how he makes my heart break at times, or do better than I could be honest to the world about my inner-workings of my heart. But I cannot even cry when I know the moment should call for it. I have a lot of things that are so undetermined within me, I cannot even say that I am a fickle creature or even one of habit. I have routines but nothing so common an occurrence I have committed it to memory in its unrivaled changing, much less the manacles of time that have clamps around even my physical form.

I thought lastly that maybe I should endeavor to write and write and write, and do that which brings me most comfort more than anything, any other thing, that I have not known to this date. Writing is myself. I am good at this and can hide behind the conformity of the words as they flow forth from my mind onto the pages I am working with.

I look forward to another knowing commitment of something, something that God only only knows what can bring me back to life. I lay lifeless, innocence stolen, stealing stored up for melancholic day as tihs one. What is the solution to this problem I see before me...

Problems... millions to speak on, but none so much that they are unresolvable, at best on mediocre when I really actually give them more than just a passing thought. If anyone knows anything good or a person who would take a chance on my writing, send them my way...

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To Whom This May Concern:

I am writing to inquire about my most recent submission for posting on your blog website set up on my behalf. I recently sent my manuscript for submission to the blog I have with you, and it was never confirmed whether or not this was received. I apologize if it has been lost and will make another attempt to send it as soon as possible. I hope to hear from you in a timely manner.

Kind Regards,
[signature]
Sarah Luedecke
1506377
1401 State School Road
Gatesville, Texas 76599