I’m falling. I’m failing. I don’t know how to fix it. Every day is the same. This emptiness is going to consume me. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want anything anymore. I just want to be gone.
I remember what it’s like to be normal. So I do an impression of that.
People who are younger than you but better than you at something
People who are younger than you
People
Being turned into a llama
A LLAMA?! HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!!!
yeah… weird
If it’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem, how long is temporary supposed to be?
Because it seems long. And I’m just so tired. Every day, I’m tired. I’m tired of the scars, tired of how I can see what about me has changed for the worse. And soon I’m going to be far away. And when I am, that world that I grew so accustomed to is going to fade away. And I’m going to fear it.
And in that fear comes a great uncertainty; will I be up for the challenge? Or will I fold into nothingness and merge into the abyss.
Maybe the best thing I can do is be kind. Just be kind. And honest. And hope that somehow that kindness and honesty will stir me into awakening my own need to find my own worth.
Because before the fire, there was only misery and darkness. And then I was shown a glimpse of light. I reached for it but I burned myself. And because I didn’t say I was burnt, I exited quietly. And then when I saw another light on the horizon, I ran towards it.
But that light burnt with such frivolousness that my skin remembered. I continue to see it in any mirror that shows it to me.
And then I exit the endless grief, and there lies a candle, with a burning wick of such furiosity that it draws my gaze.
And it breaks me. Such a gentle flame. Not asking for anything. No firewood, no mulch. It continues its burning existence to bring vibrance to a stale room.
And how can one who has not smelt comfort or beauty for some time, not feel undeserving? How can one not want to seek solitude and find the deepest darkest hole, and maybe nurture a quiet spark, in hopes that one day that one will breathe enough on it to make an inferno? Perhaps I will never know. And that is alright. I have only myself to blame for kicking dirt on some of the likeliest of flames.
How can I be angry at the mess the wind made, when it was me who opened the window?
