What do I write, what do I write, what do I write?
So many distractions, so many questions, so many emotions, are they even real? what is real at all? Every single thing is our perception of itself, basically, everything is an illusion. I must have learnt this as I was alone in my childhood since it's so intertwined with who I am, which is also a lie, nothing is forever but somehow people can't change? That's what people say, I don't understand people, the people, any people...
Do you wanna know something? I have thought about giving up lately, not even finishing the course, just marrying you and moving away together. Give you all you want and expect the same or more back. You worshipping me while I take care of us both. I haven't even hit rock bottom yet, have I?
So many noises all around, so many people yet no one at the same time, the story of my life... It's not even rejection anymore. I feel claustrophobic inside my body more often than not, is it anxiety in its thousand and one forms?
I am much freer than I used to be for I've learnt to make my body do more of what my mind wants. It's not enough... And now, it feels impossible to get up, to go out, to talk, to think even. Like some sort of rusty bike that just isn't worth keeping anymore, gathering dust in the shed, I wish I had a shed of my own.
I miss the sun and I'm angry, hysterical. I want to be in nature but this stupid place is too cold and wet... Yet here I am, still trying when I just can't see the light at all, no reason to do any of the things I am doing, nonsense is everything in this world and I just want to rest from all pressures...
I knew I wasn't gonna be able to prove to myself that I am worthy of anything, I knew I was gonna crash, I can't even do a 10-month course and I wanted to do university, let's face the facts, I am too old and I will stay in this shitty job, with my shitty German and shitty paycheck. All those dreams of my own lovely place in the forest are fucking lies cause I can't make my fucking body get out of bed any morning and now, that only thing that brought me a bit of joy is dead too.
I kill everything I touch, even the strongest ones.
All I ever wanted was to create with these hands of mine, but they should be kept in cages for all I've made has turned to dust before even being realised. My head is on backwards, my heart is on the wrong side, my mind is sick and my body incapable. I am not from this galaxy and though there may be a place where I belong, it's not anywhere in sight, I can't reach it, can't even imagine it.
My safe space. Why do I destroy everything? Such a difficult brain I bear, such heavy heart. I also always said I have an ocean inside me, years later, on Netflix they mentioned it for a girl who had superpowers... My ocean isn't amazing, it's just an infinite pit of pain that this vessel of a body can barely keep, its entirety is swollen, ready to burst, but since it doesn't I just convince myself I'm tired when truly, there are whole worlds inside me that can't find a way out and these eyes of mine see artists who do, who can, such incredibly moving pieces they create, such beauty in their inner worlds, while me... I just have diarrhoea every morning.