it’s weird how the mind works.
how the strangest memories keep playing back at you, how after writing down your dreams enough times you begin to notice patterns. being neglected, ignored, rejected - they’re like motifs in a book, themes of your life.
who am i? who are you afraid of?
i’m afraid of many things. spiders, mosquitoes sucking away your soul, ghosts, robots taking over the world, death, dependence, the absence of his chest, loneliness, the absence of his laugh as you ruffle his hair, giggling. i’m afraid of loss - of love, of him, of myself. afraid of opening up, of being a shadow, of becoming nothing, just another person in the world, just another girl.
fear of the girl in the mirror staring back at me. who are you, can you hurt me, can you stop hurting me - i’m scared, of myself?
of what i could do if i truly tried, how many people i could hurt if i changed, if i didn’t change. i’m afraid of success. of my past, of videotapes that play on repeat, dreams that show the same thing.
i choose to write because i should probably grow up, move on.
and move on i did try. cooking, for one, but what emotions can you put into cooking, what real message can you even deliver. running, for two, but what does it do other than dull one pain and bring on another.
i chose to write again because i was sick of it. sick of putting all my heartfelt emotions into some meaningless pile of whiteness that only stares back at me. tired of those dead eyes that reflect nothing but my own dark desires. fuck off, i wanted to say. stop destroying me, because the more i wrote, the more i discovered, and the more i read, the more i hated myself.
but something stayed. an urge, a force that drove words out of me like blood sputtering out, vomit purging. there was something inside me, something sullied.
and so i returned. to write the truth and face my fears.