Continuing to grapple with feelings of discomfort and agitation around everyone. I wonder, if I Google these symptoms, I'll come across a new mental illness to diagnose myself with.
Everyone is in the other room having lucid conversations yet I can't even muster up the courage to say one word.
I used to wish death upon others. When I was younger, I mean. Back when the veneer of self-assurance sparkled before all outsiders. Back when my love of art was greater than my love of destroying it. Before I had discovered John Green and the miraculous world of self-diagnosis. You should try it sometime. It's very therapeutic.
Ironically, I was happier when I was more outwardly depressed. At least there was a glimmer of hope at the end of that tunnel. Sure, the idea of kissing a cold bullet terrified me but I was always reassured by the image of blood trickling down my arms.
I long to return to that time. Back when I had less friends to appease and more expectations for myself. Now I'm firmly convinced that a stranger will find me curled up in a ditch somewhere: naked, emaciated and best of all, alone.
I'm sorry that I'm so awkward and choose to remove myself from the current conversation. It's just that I get so worried that I'll leave a negative impression within your mind(specifically that little corner dedicated to storing Polaroids of first impressions of people). Now that my departure from Botswana is imminent, I have become increasingly attracted to the idea of physically attaching myself to the few friends I have. My over attachment could be seen by some as endearing, a natural side-effect of switching continents. Shame they don't see it that way. No. To my friends, I'm acting like an overly-attached girlfriend.
Gah. Too many words. There're too many words. On this page. I'm not writing an essay. I'm simply writing my feelings down. For you. Because you're all that's keeping me sane at this point. You're that angelic voice at the end of the tunnel, calling me towards a serene afterlife. Or are you just a dream: an apparition, a figment of my drugged self conscious? I wonder, if I stab myself with this pen, will I actually bleed? Or will you lay your 'healing hands' upon the burst vein and 'stitch the skin together with the power of love?'
Bullshit!
You'll just stand there and watch me bleed out won't you?
Everyone is in the other room having lucid conversations yet I can't even muster up the courage to say one word.
I used to wish death upon others. When I was younger, I mean. Back when the veneer of self-assurance sparkled before all outsiders. Back when my love of art was greater than my love of destroying it. Before I had discovered John Green and the miraculous world of self-diagnosis. You should try it sometime. It's very therapeutic.
Ironically, I was happier when I was more outwardly depressed. At least there was a glimmer of hope at the end of that tunnel. Sure, the idea of kissing a cold bullet terrified me but I was always reassured by the image of blood trickling down my arms.
I long to return to that time. Back when I had less friends to appease and more expectations for myself. Now I'm firmly convinced that a stranger will find me curled up in a ditch somewhere: naked, emaciated and best of all, alone.
I'm sorry that I'm so awkward and choose to remove myself from the current conversation. It's just that I get so worried that I'll leave a negative impression within your mind(specifically that little corner dedicated to storing Polaroids of first impressions of people). Now that my departure from Botswana is imminent, I have become increasingly attracted to the idea of physically attaching myself to the few friends I have. My over attachment could be seen by some as endearing, a natural side-effect of switching continents. Shame they don't see it that way. No. To my friends, I'm acting like an overly-attached girlfriend.
Gah. Too many words. There're too many words. On this page. I'm not writing an essay. I'm simply writing my feelings down. For you. Because you're all that's keeping me sane at this point. You're that angelic voice at the end of the tunnel, calling me towards a serene afterlife. Or are you just a dream: an apparition, a figment of my drugged self conscious? I wonder, if I stab myself with this pen, will I actually bleed? Or will you lay your 'healing hands' upon the burst vein and 'stitch the skin together with the power of love?'
Bullshit!
You'll just stand there and watch me bleed out won't you?
I’m sorry if I seem uninterested, or I’m not listening, or I’m indifferent, she sings—But really, I would rather be at home all by myself.- Alessia Cara
