After the introduction, I will be putting all author notes at the bottom of the page for your convenience. I will update every Friday night or Saturday Afternoon and if I get at least 20 reviews in a month than the next month I will also update every other Wednesday.

I do not own Star Wars, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, or any of the characters in the introduction.

Warning: Some content in later chapters contain suicide, self-harm, and extreme depression. Be mindful of what you read.

Constructive Criticism and/or comments are welcomed.

The Skywalker Entries

Introduction

I will begin by saying that I am not an exquisite writer. I'm not rhetorical and eloquence doesn't and never will come naturally to my mouth or my hands and surely not my brain. My mind is it's own battlefield; pulling, pushing, falling and crashing. It feels as if it is either a vacuum, devoid of anything useful. Sometimes it feels like some sort of suppressed, living, breathing thing, wrapped in guilt and fear and then sometimes it's an ominous view of the traffic of Coruscant, a myriad of emotions threatening to spill out in front of everyone that I'm aware that I can't do so for. I feel everything keenly, and it overflows throughout my whole body, shaking violently, and bleeding from the inside and I am never aware that I am cut before the blood is on the floor before me.

But though my emotions are many, my words are few. I am unable to put into expression what my heart is telling me. If I try, I find myself sounding like I stole my words from a poet, and not in a good way. I'm like a broken record, skipping, stopping, falling onto my knees in the middle of a sentence.

And then I try my hand in writing and it's as if I'm no longer speaking basic. It's as if I'm drawn to use words that I don't even understand. Then I read my own work and it doesn't feel like it's my own. But then, what does feel like my own? I am never truly belonging to myself. I am always belonging to a master. I always have and I always will. My words reflect that. I wonder if maybe someone else is speaking for me. Moving my hands. Making me walk. I am not myself.

Or at least not anymore.

It was my master's recommendation to keep a journal. He claims it will help me manage my feelings since it seems I have so many of them. I don't understand how this ancient way of thinking, such as pen and paper, could solve anything at all.

I suppose he felt my mother's death too, but not in the way I would hope. Of course, it wasn't sympathy or concern. It wasn't a shoulder or a voice to help me forget. No, of course not. It could never be like that.

The suggestion is rooted in the pain of being on the other end of a young apprentice's raging turmoil. Though I admit that I said a few words that I shouldn't have, it was all true anyway. Blaming him for my mother's death seemed like a good idea at the time, even wrong, we both know it's the truth somehow.

Regardless of the truth, I know the journal was given to me out of desperation. Perhaps I could take my aggression out on paper instead of everyone else? Maybe it's a good solution for some people, but to me, it doesn't matter. Putting it on paper won't fix a thing. It's a lot safer in my head than out in words for a person to see. Why should I make the mess any bigger than it already is?

Regardless of my feelings on the matter, I find myself being ordered to spill my thoughts onto pages and I think it's pretty safe to say that I don't feel better even in the slightest by being "free" of emotions. In fact, I feel even more emotional now than I was before. This will never work. Not at all.

Nothing can save me from this torture. If anything can, I know it will not be a useless book.

The boy sighed, placing the book on his nightstand, giving his best attempt to clear his thunderous head from its screams. This effort that Obi Wan had of curing Anakin was going to fail, no doubt. Anakin was angered over himself for even giving the idea a thought. His body ached now after the endeavor, convulsing in response, regarding the blurry image of phrases on sterile white paper. His words were smudged from the storm that raged above them and Anakin found himself hating his master's suggestion more than he had earlier.

"How did it go?" his master asked him the next day, daring to hope his apprentice had found some relief in it.

Anakin shook his head, refusing to look his master in the eye. "It was just as I expected it to be. It didn't help."

Obi Wan nodded slowly, not expecting a better statement. "Of course. I suppose it will take time."

The younger Jedi stood quietly, still refusing to meet Obi Wan's eyes. This master of his was clueless, he decided. Maybe I'll write that in my journal.

"Anakin-" he began, catching the ill-intent in the young one's eyes.

"I don't need a lecture!"

Obi Wan shook his head. "I wasn't about to give one."

Silence lingered between the two of them as if swallowing them both whole. Both master and apprentice were used to this by now. It had been weeks since the death of Shmi Skywalker and it was felt in each room they passed through. It bounced off the walls, fogged up the windows, and watered the plants. Should it be said as vines? Living and breathing vines?

"I'm sorry that you seem to feel attacked by all of this. I simply want what's best for you, Anakin."

"No you don't," said Anakin calmly, with concealed anger hiding behind his pale blue eyes. "All you care about is the Jedi code. You want the counsel to think highly of you."

Obi Wan stopped suddenly, turning to Anakin as if to defend himself but Anakin wasn't finished.

"You don't have to worry about them looking down on you. You're a model Jedi Knight."

Kenobi narrowed his greenish-blue eyes at his padawan, shaking his head fleetingly. "I don't know about that."

Anakin sighed, tracing his fingers down the edge of his long padawan braid. "I will never be that, Obi Wan. You will." he swallowed as if trying to conquer the words that wanted to come forth. "When I was a kid I would dream of being a Jedi. I always imagined being a dauntless warrior, rescuing the galaxy from all that is evil and then going back to Tatooine and freeing all the slaves." his mouth became dry at the recollection of his mother's pale face, limp in his arms with the bitter mass of eternal rest. He found himself swallowing once again, concealing what he could never reveal to his master. "I know that I can be difficult…"

"Anakin, you are a lot more than difficult."

The younger Jedi looked to the one that he called master, narrowing his blues at him coldly, with the sting of his words piercing the backs of Anakin's eyes. In his tender core, he was aware that his master was right. The painting of countless slaughtered Tusken wounded the back of his reasoning, seeing both man and woman and child. An innocent child. Drawing another breath, he glanced up, his eyes sparkling with darkened tears. "I know."

For a moment, Anakin saw his master's eyes fill with pain before looking away, as he forced himself to live with the fact that his model Jedi status was not enough to bring Anakin contentment. The boy candidly trusted that his master saw him as a dreadful mistake.

Obi Wan looked up abruptly, discovering that Anakin was looking the opposite way, doubtlessly striving to stay cool headed in the apparent abuse he was collecting from his master. "Anakin," he said discreetly, turning Anakin around to scrutinize him to the face. "Yes, you are difficult, Anakin. But you're also an exceptional Jedi."

Anakin looked at him without movement, seemingly unaffected by his words. "What were you going to say then? What could possibly be worse than difficult?"

"Anakin, You are the most gifted and able Jedi I've ever met. You have the most sizable heart of any Jedi that I've ever known. Your emotions can get you in trouble. We have talked about this."

"Big trouble," Anakin hissed, glancing down at his boots.

"Yes, but your emotions are what make you notable. Yes, they often get you into trouble but that heart of yours is the reason we have saved so many lives, plainly because you couldn't stand the fact that people were in pain. So yes, it isn't the most conventional way of the Jedi. It's not even a part of the Jedi code, but regardless of the trouble you find, the good will always outweigh the wrong. Don't forget that."

The boy then lifted his head, the disbelief evident in his eyes. He had, of course, expected a lecture of what he was doing wrong. Not this. In all honesty, he wasn't even sure he could trust what he was perceiving. Obi Wan claimed that Anakin was unconventional but here was the same Obi Wan Kenobi expressing in a way that shocked him so much that nearly caused him to overturn his tea. Maybe he wasn't a model Jedi. At least not in the way of the code. But he was a model Jedi, in the ways of the eyes of a nine-year-old boy.

"Master…" he muttered almost soundlessly, his skepticism still in his visage.

"I'm concerned about you. Since the battle of Geonosis you've been so different." The arrogance that Obi Wan had detected in the boy had unsettled him substantially, but now the boy seemed to lack pride at all. It was demoralizing to see. "I just want to help." he finally added.

Anakin breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that the profoundness in his master's eyes hadn't vanished yet. He had wrestled over the anticipation that his master lucidly feeding him that words that he lacked to hear, only to get his own way. But no! He felt it when he glanced at the man in front of him. He had grown to be a father to him; like a brother.

His arrogance had blinded him for so long, but now he could see Obi Wan's validity. He was attempting to help. Shaking his head at his own weakness, he gave the man what he wished. "Okay, I'll try again."

"I've kept a journal since I was about your age."

Anakin nodded steadily, noticing what he had fallen into. "I said I'll try."

Obi Wan grinned clemently, satisfied with at least that.

Against my better judgment, I am trying once again. I suppose that Obi Wan played me. I plunged into the confinement and I'm horrified by that fact. My shock is out of line, though, since I have always been prone to sinking into traps. Of course, not on purpose. I dive in them, almost willingly. I suppose that I don't really slip into anything at all, but traps slide into me. In response, I find it decent to at least return the favor. My generosity is an illness, I swear it.

I've been reflecting about what a journal accurately is and I note that by definition it says nothing about releasing any built up hurt. I wonder to myself why it is such a grand idea to the eyes of so many. A journal is, in fact, a daily record of news and events of a personal nature. So should I fall out of line with the definition, then truly I am far off course in the ways of which the council would like. They are the ones who keep hassling me about letting my essence cascade onto pages, strictly to offer them each peace of mind. Meanwhile, I am the one questioning everything and all that they say and believe. I know this is an additional excuse, but whatever it may be, I find that irrelevant. Making an oath to Obi Wan was imprudent. I can't accept my own gullibility.

So now I am trying as I had promised. I will let my ardor and notions escape from the stone wall I assembled and the harvest of the trees will suffer my indignation. On paper, I will free myself if I do only one thing. I doubt it helps but I do not doubt that the observation of my mind will help me see more audibly. Then I can avoid another sickening fault in a shadowy hour where my blind fury has no dominion over me. Isn't it demented to not understand myself at all?

I must begin by admitting my detest for the Tuskens, those remorseless, bloodthirsty beasts. What was their motive for my mother's abuse, besides their lust for sport and game? None. None whatsoever. They feed on the harm of others. Their lives revolve around the torment of another. They are evil creatures for no grounds at all. They are and always will be unceasing slaughterers.

Was I not the one who slaughtered their entire tribe? Is killing crooked when it's well deserved? These questions didn't seem to make their way into my head at the time. All that counted was justice. But was it justice, really? Or revenge. callous revenge.

I hate them still. I always will. Those men deserved to burn. I have no doubt. They abducted my mother, abused her, wielded her and for what? Only nothing. It was a game to them. I can't say I regret what I did entirely. I can't avoid the icy feeling that continues to surface in my body at the image of it. I feel I can justify how much they deserved what I did.

But those were the men. Were the women as deserving? I can't let myself dwell on the answer I know is in my head. All I know is in the future, they may have had son's that grow, and they will follow the wicked path of their ancestors and torture for their own amusement, and no Tusken should live up to that risk. Nobody else must die. I have restored peace, haven't I? Killing is a good way to avoid killing, I'm sure of it. It's the only thing that makes sense. But it's not about the murder, it's about the cause. They kill for fun, and I kill because I have to.

The Tuskens don't have souls. Any person who kills another without good reason is soulless, and how could anybody ever love a murderer?

How could anyone love me?

But Padme does, and it wasn't cold blooded murder that has made me so fragile these last few weeks. It was the death of my mother. Padme looked past everything, and she believes in who I am. More than I do. A part of me has never found better happiness, but another has never found more bitter pain. I need to see her. It's been too many days.

So journal, you aren't getting more than that. At least, not today. I'm bound to fall in another trap. I'm bound to fall into something.