Curiosity.

I've always wanted to venture into someone else's mind. Just once. To see the differences, to feel the differences.  I mean, who am I? I am one person, one person out of billions. What if I wasn't me? Would I be me whilst being someone else? Is there really such a thing as reincarnation? Curiosity.

You know what I love?

Love letters. Writing and giving my soul up to a piece of paper. Inking my feelings permanently for someone else to read, over and over again. I miss how love can make you describe the most wretched cloudy day like it was dripping in technicolor sunsets. I miss wanting to give my all to something for nothing in return.

And yet… I don’t miss being vulnerable. I don’t miss being taken for granted. I don’t miss having my heart broken and the nightmares that followed for months after. I don’t miss my literal and figurative scars. Loving someone more than you love yourself is a very, very dangerous thing. I’ve learned to close myself off again. I haven’t felt the wonder of having legitimate feelings for someone in a very long time. All I feel over things now is this stale, lingering impression of disappointment. Either that things could’ve been better, or worse. But not that they were great or bad. The whole thing to me is rotting. I’ve learned to put myself before my feelings. I don’t take things personally anymore. There’s no point. 

Second thoughts.

I had second thoughts, you know. I have wondered why I am here. My mind has been through the familiar phase of mazes and circles; confusion which envelopes my whole body. I could resurface from the seemingly endless sea of love and emotions I had once drowned my heart and mind in. But then you’d do your charm thing and smile and my stomach would twist and churn and I would fall in. Deep. And I would remember why. 

A tree.

A tree does not stop being a tree when it loses its leaves. 
A girl does not stop being a girl when she takes her makeup off. 
God does not cease being good when the circumstances in our life become dim. 

Please.

Don’t talk to me if the only reason you’re here is because you’re bored. Don’t make me your last resort just because you feel lonely or you have nothing else better to do. I’m not going to be the person you run to, then suddenly leave when someone better comes along. I already know I'll never be good enough, why do you have to rub it in my face? 

Drowning.

I'm always torn between wanting to tell everyone my story and letting them know exactly what is in my head, or keeping it to myself. The problem is being outwardly unhappy and if consistently so, pushing people away, no matter if they say they're always there to listen, there is only so much your best friends can listen to. On the other hand, to pretend that everything is fine is to poison yourself from the inside out, to ignore who you are and to lose yourself. So which is better? To have friends think that you are melodramatic, seeking attention, and pessimistic, or to drown in your own mind? 

Fear.

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People even more so. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous, right? How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain. I should, too.

The moon.

Tonight, I sat outside, staring at the moon. I have always been drawn to it. Connected, in some inexplicable way. A silent kinship. There’s the moon, asking to stay. All my life, I’ve regarded it with a solemn reverence. For the tempestuous storm it brews. The ebb and flow. Love, lust, and longing. Sorrow and anguish. Strength and hope. Brazen resilience. An image of change. Of life itself. Birth and death and rebirth. Continuous incontinuity. Everything amounts to this enormous beauty I know I will never fully be able to grasp. In all this, the moon reflects the heart of life. The kaleidoscope flux of the soul. The moon. It’s a cause for introspection. A mirror of who I have been, and a promise of who I can become.