Well, writing has never really let me down. So let’s try to make sense of this.

I feel like shit. Complete shit. I’m over eating, over drinking, over thinking, over talking, getting angry easily and quickly and just generally feeling like complete shit.

Read John Green’s Paper Towns for the second time just yesterday, finished it and saw Margo Roth Speigelman in a new light. Paper towns and paper cities and paper people. She’s right, you know. She just had to leave. No traces, just uproot and leave. Find herself, escape the chameleon-ing and just be herself. Tired.

She wasn’t a brat, not fully. There was truth in her words, behind her actions. There’s more but also nothing. You do, you say, you react, but what is the result? The experience but then you forget and are forgotten and it’s all so fucking hedonistic and for-the-now but there’s no purpose and you find a purpose and life is better with every decade and still we’re all lonely. Why.

What is life. This must be the most pathetic line ever, since it’s been said so many times, but if it’s been said so often over so many years, centuries even, there’s a point to this question. What is it, what are we doing.

Life is achingly beautiful, it’s so painful to live to exist to know that you are breathing and living and life is a ball of energy and transcendence and beauty and it’s so pure you can’t help but to cry. Not out of happiness, but from the pain of knowledge, of simply knowing, not comprehending but knowing. That you are alive and there’s Nothing you can do about it.

Day after day, and the biggest stranger isn’t that person I see coming into the cafe for a meal. It’s me. My skin, my brain, my thoughts, my soul, my body, my beliefs, my values and background and relationships. Who am I and why am I given life but not living a life, but the life that has been determined?

I’m surviving. Barely, years and years of distractions from the thoughts that chase and stalk and rape me of all my fixations and obsessions and obligations and responsibilities till I’m lying in a puddle of my own tears wondering how to pretend this never happened.

I’m lost, and I’ve never been found. Looking within, there’s a swirling, undefinable darkness that has been labeled by everyone but myself. Who am I, that I can start understanding myself. Walt Whitman said that all the distractions of the world are ‘not the me Myself’ but then what is?

What is the point. If I can look at my wrists and, if I feel no pain, willingly slit them, watching the beads of ruby, the sparkling wine-red (or perhaps poisoned and black) pearls drain my soul out to… where?

Fear, it sucks me dry and weak and tired, there’s nothing left but a shell of shock of pain of aching emptiness, all but labels and roles and duties and plans and rules but not me.

Threw the me out long ago, but she, it, comes back whenever time provides its cruel deck.

Bitterness overwhelms, it consumes, it exists, and what is it to exist simultaneously alongside your pleasures and pains and pleasures are but pain on a different wavelength but we never recognise that definition because it was long perceived to be two separate things but pain and pleasure are the same, ask any human who has cried from laughter.

And what am I, who, when am I going to be me and I instead of her, she, that, and labels and never me because I can never experience her.

Look at the never-ending expanse of sky that does not care. At pains that are created by interactions so false so laden with traditions that ache from the weight of our ancestors’ cries and pains. At apathy at agony at soul mates and kindred spirits who can never pull me out.

Self-help, but not wanting to get out, just to run but not literally, to hide physically in a corner and waste away or balloon and plummet. Why is no longer a question, for the answer exists not.


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