i seem to have lost some parts of me that made me myself.
even the idea of using the pronoun I disgusts me now.
it makes me feel selfish and i’m unable to write without guilt clouding my thoughts.
but i’ll be selfish, just for today. i’ll live with the guilt.
i guess the reason i cried when i couldn’t go to the birdy concert wasn’t just because of the money. it was because of who i was when i loved her music, the girl who couldn’t seem to die. the girl who dressed up in blue harem pants and pretended to be a cabaret girl on stage when she hadn’t even been kissed yet; the tics she left behind, the people she touched. the embarrassing moments, dancing on tables and holding on to ideals so powerful she couldn’t imagine a life without living. my legs trembling, moments of failure, moments of inability, moments of discovery, days i’ll never get back. the anxiety of waiting, thinking that if someone kisses you they must love you, believing others when they say they do.
the friends i’ll never see again, in this world at least. conformity was my mythology; sure, you can learn from it, but it isn’t real. i want to hug the world and love it with all my might.
sometimes you have to pick yourself up, and not expect others to do so for you. i know it’s incredibly hard, and it hurts to feel so alone as humans more often than not do, but it’s okay.