My name is Aislyn. I was born nineteen years ago on Iain Pears birthday. As soon as I read The Titian Committee, I knew that my life had to be dedicated to art and writing.

I have parents that love me, that have always wanted the best for me, even if it wasn’t quite what I wanted. They’re the kind of parents that wouldn’t mind if I lived at home until I was forty, because that would mean they would get to see me every day. And I think I’m now old enough to realize that each of their criticisms, though they stung at the time, have been completely out of love.

I have the most wonderful sister that ever lived. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone, and now she’s probably going to be gone. I’ve always resented the saying “Bad things happen to good people” although I must admit that it holds some truth. She is the only person never too busy to listen to what I had to say. Somehow she knows the way my mind works better than I do, and I can’t think of any better gift she had ever given me in my life than that. “Aislyn,” she would say, “I know how you are, don’t make a rash decision. The sun always comes out from behind the clouds.” She is probably the only reason I put so much thought into the reason for what I am writing, and if I could, I would assure her that this has not at all been a rash decision and that it has absolutely nothing to do with her.

If she lives through the hell that nature is putting her through, I hope she gets married to the sweetest man in existence and does everything that she has ever wanted to do with her life, as she deserves no less.

I had a childhood that was normal as any other. My winters were spent building snowmen, my springs used to pick dandelions for my mother, my summers for dancing in the rain and running through puddles, and my autumns for jumping into piles of leaves. I miss those days. The part I miss the most is how the only time a child is not happy is when it is given reason to be unhappy. What adult can boast of such beautiful simplicity? My parents tell me that my favorite toys were my finger paints; they used to have colorful scribbles of absolutely nothing hung all over the walls. They could never bear to throw even my most insignificant doodles away, saying they were the earliest works of the world’s next great artist.

English and art were always my favorite classes in school. When I started college I declared my major to be art history with a minor in English, thinking that one day I could be some sort of art historian that wrote novels and poetry. I could work for a large and beautiful art museum during the day, sharing rooms with works by Andy Warhol, Salvador Dali and Leonardo da Vinci. My nights would consist of long hours composing novels, plays, and poems. It would be the most romantic modern lifestyle, and I looked forward to it with all the eagerness of a child.

The end of my first year of college my parents noticed that I barely talked to them anymore. I scarcely spoke to anyone. I hardly ate. I would always get enough sleep, but always looked completely exhausted. Being the caring parents that they are, they took me to a psychiatrist. I was diagnosed with depression and put on medication.

That was about four months ago. I’ve never taken the medication. I’d rather see the world as it is, and I don’t want some crap going through my head and making it more messed up than it is. If they alter my thoughts through medicine can it get to a point where they are no longer my thoughts? It is a terrifying notion that I would rather not be part of proving.

And that is why I’ve decided that the only real way to cure what ails me is to not live through the depression, to not live at all.

I’ve forgotten the look of colors, everything is grey. The only reasons I find to get out of bed in the morning are Athena and art. At least ten times a day I feel like I must cry, and while my eyes will water there is no release; I think that I’ve already used all of my tears. The world has found a way to rip apart every inch of me except for this, and I would rather finish the job myself than give it the satisfaction. My heart has been broken for the last time – no glue or string could ever put it together again.

I don’t hate the world, I hate the way it makes me feel.

And with love for my parents and Athena, I feel that I must say goodbye.

Aislyn.