I need an outlet. I need an outlet, so I am creating an outlet. Driven by desperation and that feeling of bursting at the seams I find myself here, in front of a screen again. The only thing I know how to do. Freestyle my feelings on to a page.
You know, I’ve stopped being so depreciating when it comes to my writing. I recently saw a BTS crack video (don’t ask) where the creator introduced her work with the same tone that I did with my old blog, but noticed that she had plenty views. I got my beloved Henry to notice me at least. This whole time I’ve just been this little girl, begging for some attention, validation… reassurance, reassurance of the fact that it will all be beautiful in the end. It will eventually be, world peace. It will eventually end, world hunger. It will eventually end, life. Yikes. Mindset just leaked through then. But it was, what it was. The same way it is what it is. I have a lot of love. It’s special. I was offended when it was rejected, not reciprocated. It’s so gentle and so pure. So sweet and still.
I deny myself love. Why is that so?
It’s safe to say that I have lost myself. My being now just feels like an imitation of itself or what it thinks it should be or what makes it feel like the flames aren’t hot, like the wounds aren’t sore. It’ll heal naturally, I say. Like a wound scabbing over, it will heal on its own.
I didn’t want to believe it. I mean I still don’t. To simultaneously feel guilt for your own actions but hate everyone for making you this way. To see ways out that are actually traps. It’s a minefield up there, in the old noggin. I’m really just trying not to die, because the thought is hidden under so many of the places you’re meant to step on to get to the greener side. Getting over it is not only hard but dangerous. So if you just paint everything green, it will be alright… right?
I’ve forgotten how to just be. My days are filled with melancholy, my heart aches and my head hurts to the point where the backs of my eyes are carrying on the neighbouring pain.
I know it is all my fault. All my doing. My stupid, naive, childlike view of the world and people. At this point in my life I desperately cling to it, and in the same way a rubber band when pulled long enough snaps after a while, I arrive at that point — and I return from a google search to say that it is called ‘fracture stress’ — where what was once one has become two useless parts, unable to perform its original function.
I’m so mad. Quite literally mad.
