It Gets Difficult To Breath Again. Everyone Is So Far Away. And I'm Afraid. Afraid That Even If I Do

i know it feels like your pain is out there in the world for all to see but it's not. it's so deep inside your heart even you can't feel it. and even if it wasn't... even if it was out there for all to see... what would be so terrible about that?

there's no evidence that growth is painful.

then how do you explain the ache in my chest. how do you explain this constant urge to carve out my heart and leave it in a dark room, away from all eyes, in a place it can't be touched.

day 4

4:12 p. m.

maybe humor was always about getting rid of the pain. maybe all art has always been.

my best friend from ages ago texted me today. said it was great to think of me. now we're both 20. how did childhood pass so quickly? once, we laughed together and cried together. once, life was simply passing chits in class and holding hands during recess. now, there is too much to feel. talking to you, most of it is good. i hope we keep remembering each other. i hope we keep reminding each other. i hope, when life turns bitter, our memories can be that one last, sweet thing to hold onto.

day 1

8:44 a. m.

for all they say about death, about pain, time seems to move relatively fast when you're not paying attention to it. the last conversations, the last pictures... what to do with them now? now, when this pain doesn't even make sense.

reminder to self: playing lorde on repeat only makes you cry in your coffee and crying gives you a headache. don't do that. also next time, try more than 10 alarms in a row. that might help.

and i'd really, really like to believe that there's someone out there reading all this. reading this and rooting for me to make it through this. because if not, then what am i even doing here?

day 8

6:50 p. m.

remember the feeling of the autumn sun on your face. the way your old fall playlist brings only the good moments back. the way your flannels will always smell of coffee. of collecting falling harsingars in the mornings. rose pricks and paper cuts. all the dark academia vibes. remember them.

day 11

8:51 p. m.

i feel like i'm losing track of days. like i'm in a perpetual haze. like my body exists out of my self. like i am but a spectator in my own days. i wake up and i make my coffee. i drink it and i read. i work out and do chores. i write too. but my mind is... somewhere else. i run my fingers through my hair, unaware of both hand and hair. i place the leaf in chapter twenty-nine, not knowing what's in there. nothing feels real. no, not nothing. this pain feels real. too real. this heart that beats too fast feels real. this mind, though lost, still exists. i think therefore, i am. i must be. or i must not.

So I attach myself to people who are not those who are long gone or those who were never here and I listen to bands whose members are dead and movies that no one else watched and I talk to characters from books and stories and tell of my sorrows to the words for they don’t come to me telling me to be someone I’m not expecting me to do things I’m not capable of

24 september

3 years and i forget your voice and i forget the date and i forget what it was like to be fed by your hand and why do i only have one picture to remember what you looked like? maybe i'm an awful person and i don't deserve this grief but i remember the house and i remember how you smelled and i remember what your hand felt like on mine. and i'm sorry i forgot.