depressingly chaotic / chaotically depressing

#1: currently ;

life is moving in strange directions. neither forwards nor backwards, yet i’m not standing still. most of the time it feels like i’m walking in circles, re-discovering things that have already been re-discovered from the time they were first discovered. yet everything comes in new forms, new formations, new formulations. new realizations? maybe.

maybe.

it's a strange thing, being alive. i read through my old journals -- like the one i had on my bedside table in eighth grade in which i wrote down my dreams: both the drowsy hazy ones from mornings waking up with a dry sensation in my mouth, as well as those of sudden sparks of inspiration finding me at 2am in the morning -- or like that one journal i had with me when i was traveling alone for the first time, fourteen years old with my back leaned against the central park wall along 59th street, listening to 'white sky' on repeat. i read through my old journals and i realize that much of what i felt then, i feel now; much of what i aspired to be then, i still aspire to be today. some things have changed, of course. i no longer dream of vampire weekend and i no longer cling on to the idea of love embodied in brown curls and hazel eyes and bony arms on a weekday afternoon ;

but much of the anxiety i feel is the same, the thoughts that cluttered my mind back then still cloud my mind today. i am 14 and not feeling good enough. i am 19 and feeling like a disappointment. i am 14 unable to sleep because i'm scared of dreaming. i am 19 and i never dream anymore. i am 14 feeling lost and wanderlust, dreaming of a get-away. i am 19 feeling wanderlust but no longer in a pretty beautiful teenage tumblr girl-way but rather one of having a strong desire to travel out of myself; of diminishing myself to nothing; of disappearing, slowly and quietly. five years later i am realizing that the wanderlust dreams of big city life and ocean salt in my hair were all just a trying to get away from everything that was at the time. five years later i am realizing that ultimately, i was trying to get away from myself.

it’s a strange way of being alive because that was in eighth grade and i’m five years older now. i think a lot about what andrew told me during my final week at school: that one day when i caught him in the dining hall and we had brunch together, him and me and selina. and afterwards i walked down the stairs with him and i taught him how to climb the field house in his flip flops while i hugged eve on the ground. on that day he'd told us: 
"when you grow older you'll realize that you're the exact same person as you were ten years ago. you're the person you're always going to be, right now. down the road you'll just have a little more experience", 
and as i read through my old journals i'm starting to think that maybe he's right. and that thought, in itself, freaks me the fuck out. 
five years older and five years wiser, or so i thought. but we only learn by repetition and in the end i guess we become what we repeat. in this case, an endless self-perpetuation of anxious thoughts that spread out next to me in bed every night. like an unwanted habitual; a compulsion.

;

but the mornings are sacred. mornings i have retired to routine. a piece of peace of mind before i tackle the rest of the day. the sun will peek in my dim room and my family will rise at eight in the morning, leaving me in a sleepy haze. and so i hit the home button on my iphone placed trustily besides me on the bed to ensure myself it is still early, and then i doze off again until my alarm rings at 9:30. what alarm signal goes off depends on what alarm has been on top of my alarm list, and so whether or not i have taken an afternoon nap the day before. i have four alarms. two of them go off to "playtime" and two of them go off to "slow rise". i don't usually save my alarms but somehow have four different ones from different occasions. actually, they were probably all made when i needed to wake up really early and ensure my waking up and so i set four alarms in a row. right now they're at 09:30, 13:20, 16:37, and 17:30. i did not take a nap the day before then, because i always end up changing the top alarm to whatever time i need to wake up to, and the top alarm is still set at 09:30. anyhow, if the first alarm weren't to be set at 09:30, but something else - say a usual nap time (17:00) - then that wouldn't be the first alarm in the list anymore, but the 13:20 one would end up as number 1 (iphone alarms rank in order). and if the 13:20 one was on top then that one would be the one i would change to "9:30" before i went to bed in the evening. and so some times the alarms are all different. although right now i haven't had to change my alarm because i haven't taken a nap, and so tomorrow i know i'll still wake up to "playtime". i've woken up to "playtime" since i first had an ipod touch (in like... 6th grade) so that tone has become strangely familiar. it's like waking up next to an old friend. i'm the only one i know that uses it. the "slow rise" one i don't know why i have. i blame it on waking up on purple bedsheets next to blotched red cheeks every weekend morning during third semester. but if he or i set the alarms, i don't know. i just know that's the one he used to have on his ipad, and that is the one that used to wake me up to see him rise and throw on shorts and a flannel and sit down by his desk to study on weekend mornings. sometimes he would make tea for us. other times he'd stay in bed with me (but that'd always stress him out, afterwards). whatever. point is, i wake up at 09:30 every day. 

i allow myself to dwell in bed for 30 minutes. i check my messages (living with friends across a million time zones does that to you), see what's happened on instagram, look at what crazy nights my friends have had on their snapchat stories. i am too obsessed with social media but it's never bothered me. i don't know if it should. it probably should. but right now it's like a following of lives you used to know to feel like you still know them. i don't know if that's sad or beautiful. maybe both. 

i used to always skip breakfast but now breakfast has become habit-- one that i built during third semester, too. after i've gotten up from bed i go down the stairs. my mom will always be reading by her laptop and my brother will always have his head buried in headphones watching some youtube video and so i'll greet them with a good morning and reach for a bowl from the cupboard and grab a spoon from the drawer. i take the yoghurt out the fridge. prepare a cup of coffee. one and a half spoons of coffee (zoegas skånerost) and one full cup of water. i pour yoghurt into my bowl. pour müesli on top of my yoghurt. chia seeds. nuts, occassionally. and then i'll put the yoghurt back into the fridge. place the bowl on the table. grab the book that i'm currently reading (troubling love by elena ferrante, right now). and then the coffee machine will make that razzling noise indicating that my coffee is finished and so i'll pour it out into my favorite cup: a white one with pink roses that i got for my 14th birthday. and then i sit down at the opposite side of the dinner table from where i usually sit (i always sit in the wrong chair when i eat alone. i don't know why), and begin breakfast. an intricately simple preparation.

-

i haven’t read this much in a very long time. it makes me happy to have built that habit again. i devour murakami like i’ve always done, reading his novels back to back. i read his first two works: "hear the wind sing" and "pinball, 1973", and the introduction that comes with them, written more than 30 years after their release. i fold down the lower corner of pages that evoke emotion: pages that contain words that i read over and over again; sentences that end up compiled amongst my phone notes; sometimes entire pages of thoughts that resonate with me. i finish "hear the wind sing" in two days and when i close it it seems three times thicker from all the pages that i’ve decided to fold down so that i can re-read them again. i haven’t related so much to a novel in very long. and that’s when it hits me. i want to become a writer. it's a violent force hitting me stronger than before. it's always been in the back of my head but this is the first time it's actually felt real. like this is what i actually want. like this is what i actually need. writing has saved me so many times. nothing consoles me more than writing. 

and so i write a lot. i think a lot. i scribble down things amongst my phone notes. i write letters to selina and facebook messages to mihir. and maybe one day, that’ll become something. i just don’t know what, yet.

 
#2: a week in phone notes
 
July 15, 2017 at 21:51: "WRITE A NOVEL"
 
July 16, 2017 at 13:43: "what's the difference between love / friendship? why does one require intimacy while the other doesn't? why is friendship ultimately more stable and more trustworthy than one of lover's arms?
 
July 16, 2017 at 17:08: "gnawing feeling of never being good enough. the nagging voice of being replaced. never occurs in friendship. / is love underrated or overrated?"
 
July 16, 2017 at 17:12: "chalky calluses and tobacco tongue. rainy hugs and dreams of a better tomorrow. and indifference. an endless void of indifference"
 
July 16, 2017 at 21:27: "PINBALL 1973:
p. 119 (about venus. and love) everyone's heart is overflowing with love / so you love in anticipation of death?
 
we were prone to so many disasters-- lives lost to suicide, minds wrecked, hearts marooned in the backwaters of time, bodies burning with pointless obsessions-- and we gave each other a hell of a lot of trouble.
 
heartbreakingly common
 
on any given day, something can come along and steal our hearts. it may be any old thing: a rosebud, a lost cap, a favorite sweater from childhood, an old Gene Pitney record. a miscellany of trivia with no home to call their own. lingering for two or three days, that something soon disappears, returning to the darkness. there are wells, deep wells, dug in our hearts. birds fly over them.
 
the mad buzzing of a dying bee in a pool of winter sunlight. / slender plumes of smoke rising straight into the air, like magic ropes.
 
people are awkward creatures. a lot more awkward than you seem to realize.
 
a dream without substance. 
 
tennessee williams once wrote: "so much for the past and present. the future is called 'perhaps', which is the only possible thing to call the future." yet when i look back on our dark voyage, i can see it only in terms of a nebulous "perhaps." all we can perceive is this moment we call the present, and even this moment is nothing more than what passes through us."
 
July 16, 2017 at 22:25: "i crawl into bed with crippling anxiety spreading out besides me. the nights are the worst. the loneliest. i dislike that word because i can use those letters to spell his name."
 
July 16, 2017 at 22:00: "can't get out from bed"
 
July 17, 2017 at 09:29: "can't get out from bed."
 
July 17, 2017 at 10:00: "TROUBLING LOVE:
mutual estrangement
 
i had sat for a while tasting my name like an echo of memory, an abstraction that sounds without sound in one's head."
 
July 18, 2017 at 11:30: "i know exactly what i'm doing, but i just can't stop. that's my greatest weakness. / the summer sunlight baked the ground with dumb intensity."
 
July 19, 2017 at 10:21: "MEN WITHOUT WOMEN:

p. 88-89 contains description about 'equal' love, e.g: it sounds like you're trying your best not to fall too deeply for her, but also hoping not to lose her.  exactly. it's contradictory, i know. [...] i just can't lose her. if that happened, i'd lose myself. 

as with most people who are well raised, well educated, and financially secure, dr. tokai only thought of himself. 

WHO IN THE WORLD AM I?

 p.95: realizing the simplicity of humanity

 my heart moves in tandem. 

 p. 113: description of the importance of raw love for human emotion and life"

July 20, 2017 at 22:58: "depressingly chaotic"

 

#3: excerpts from my diary (2012)

(sorry the english translations are really bad. swedish is a pretty nifty language and sometimes it just doesn't translate very well. i tried, at least).

"B R Ä C K L I G och vill att någon ska rädda mig. jag behöver en vinterdrog som kan lugna mig under årets kallaste dagar. något som kan tina mitt frysna novemberhjärta. vill inte falla tillbaka i dimman. V I L L. I N T E. " // "F R A I L and i want someone to come save me. i need a winter drug to calm me down during the coldest days of the year. someone to defrost my frozen november heart. i don't want to fall back into the void. I D O N ' T W A N T TO".

"saker som är fula: LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET LIVET" // "things that are ugly: LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE"

"hjärtat skaver men dina kyssar bedövar" // "heart is aching but your kisses numb the pain"

"imorgon fyller jag 15 vilket är lite konstigt, men fortfarande okej. förutom att jag vill inte bli äldre. så egentligen är det nog inte så okej" // "i turn 15 tomorrow which is kind of strange, but still okay. except i don't want to grow older. so i guess actually, it isn't that okay"

"00:51: jag tror jag vet varför jag känner mig så ensam. ingen berättar något för mig längre. inga hemligheter att dela, förälskelser att tjuta om. tyst tyst tyst. ps: jag har ingen att berätta något för heller. fast jag vet inte vad jag skulle berättat ändå så det kanske är bäst så.ds" // "00.51: i think i know why i feel so lonely. no one tells me anything anymore. no secrets to share, no infatuations to rejoice about. quiet quiet quiet. ps: i don't have anyone to tell anything to either. but i guess i don't know what i would have told them anyway so maybe it's better that way. ds"

"ljusslingan är på hela tiden nu. de små gula ljusen ger mig någon slags komfort, en trygghet - fast rädslan är kvar. denna ständiga rädsla, blandad nu med en bultande irritation som besöker mig oftare och oftare. i takt med att natten blir längre sönderfaller jag: faller faller faller (rädd)." // "my fairy lights are always on nowadays. the tiny yellow lights give me some kind of comfort, a safety of sorts -- but the fear is still there. the constant fear, now mixed with a pounding irritation that visits me more frequently than ever before. as the night grows longer i fall apart: falling falling falling (i'm scared)."

"lyssnar på E18 och känner mig tom. hjärtat skaver men det gör inte ont. tomt bara. tomt. snart är klockan 01.30 och jag är rädd för att sova. rädd för att drömma" // "i'm listening to E18 and feeling empty. my heart is aching but it doesn't hurt. just empty. empty. it's almost 01:30 am and i'm scared of falling asleep. i'm scared of dreaming"

and on the last page it says:

"för första gången på länge gör det inte ont. jag är bara tom. tom, men ganska glad ändå. denna sommaren kommer bli bra." // "for the first time in a long time it doesn't hurt. i'm just empty. empty, but pretty happy still. this summer is going to be a good one."

#4: from my diary (2017)

the past seven days have been spent pondering my not being good enough; scrutinizing myself and my character into tiniest detail to try and figure out where things went wrong. it’s been exhausting. i’ve felt like shit. i feel better now.

forest green t-shirt tucked in black shorts in the bouldering hall. awkwardness. he seems to be scouting the area for me and little does he know i’m right behind him. i poke him in the back and stick my head out to his left, to which he turns around to the right just to have to do another 180 spin and embrace me. his voice is tired. he kisses my forehead. he asks me how i am. i say i’m good. i’m lying. i ask him how he is. he says he’s really tired. he looks really tired. 

none of us say much. it’s uncomfortable and i don’t want to be there. i just want to get up on the wall and not think about anything for a while. i want him to stop talking. i want him to stop trying to make things not awkward. i just want to climb. and so i race up three problems to get my body warm. it makes me feel a little better. he's not climbing at all. it makes me slightly frustrated. what’s the point of being in the gym if you’re not going to climb? he blames it on his being tired. "why are you here, then?” i say. "because i was going to see you”, he replies. i force a smile. it feels in-genuine. probably looks in-genuine too. he gets frustrated when i try helping him on the wall. it makes me frustrated, too. i really despise people that believe they can be fully independent. i despise them because i’m the same way. 

"have i made you frustrated lately?” he asks me after a while. at this point kisses have been exchanged, laughter has been cracked. 
"what, with your crappy motivational speeches?” i joke. 
"no, in general, i mean”. he turns serious. i turn serious too. 

i tell him the truth. i tell him: yes, yes you have made me frustrated. i’m just not a very stable person either and i get really anxious sometimes. he tells me he doesn’t want that for me. i tell him that’s just how it is. i tell him about knowing how it is like to cut people out. i tell him about knowing how it is fucking up relationships because you’re mentally unstable. i think about my behavior making my ex boyfriend turn to counseling. i tell him he just needs to be honest with me. he nods. he tells me he understands where i’m coming from. he tells me his illness is delving into darkness. he tells me he has no intention of hurting me. he tells me he would like to be there for me. he tells me that sometimes he can’t. that right now he can’t. that right now he’s so focused on taking care of himself that everything else becomes secondary. i nod. i tell him it makes sense. he tells me he knows himself well enough to realize he has the capacity to hurt me without realizing it. i sit quietly. i tell him i’m sorry he feels shitty. he tells me that’s just how it is. he shrugs. i shrug, too. i tell him that just because it’s become a normal state of being doesn’t make it not shitty. he shrugs again; a
nd so i shrug too. 

"so what are you telling me?” i ask him. if he wants us to stop seeing each other i want him to just tell me that straight up without making excuses. 
”i’m just telling you how it is." 

i appreciate his honesty. i tell him i don’t want to be a contributing factor to his feeling bad. i tell him that i don’t want to make it worse. he tells me he doesn’t resent me in that way at all. he tells me he likes spending time with me. he tells me that this is why he didn’t want anything serious. he tells me that he’s having a good time. he tells me this is a good day. he tells me a good day is one where he is capable of doing the simplest things: like forcing a smile, or holding a conversation. 

i tell him: "so just spend time with me when you’re feeling okay”. 
he replies: "yeah. we’ll leave it at that, shall we?”. i nod. i try to smile but it feels fake. he kisses me on the cheek. my entire being feels indifferent. if my entire being could be one mode of thought it would be: such is life. andrew would be so proud of me.

he asks me if i think love is over or underrated. i tell him i think it’s neither. i tell him i don’t think you can classify love like that. he chuckles. ”you’re such a diplomat” he tells me. wow, how familiar. thoughts of my parents telling me the same thing ten years ago when i couldn't pick favorites flash by my mind. oh, and that sunday when we were route setting on the climbing wall and hugh had taken one of the grips that i wanted to use for my route and i got really jokingly upset but in actuality i was actually quite upset because that was my favorite grip and i really wanted to use it. that sunday andrew had asked us about our families, and i had revealed to him that i was a middle child to which he had reacted like that made SO. MUCH. SENSE. and like he had now de-coded and finished psychoanalyzing my entire being. 

and so he'd said: "so that's why you're so obsessed with things being fair!" like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

and then he helped tie hugh's rope to the wall so he couldn't move up or down as he was self-belaying. it made me laugh. and then i thought about what he'd said for a long time. although i doubt andrew thought about it much himself, it stuck with me. and so that's what flashed by my mind as i got told i'm a diplomat. that, and a strong taste of the bittersweet. because i hate that quality of myself. i hate it because it's a coping mechanism that is limiting and compromising. and ultimately, it's protecting myself but in a manner that is also hindering my own will, independence, and self-confidence. and also, i miss andrew. and hugh. and route setting sundays on our 20ft campus wall.

;
and so i turn to instantly saying that i think love is underrated. i say i think love is underrated because i think people are scared of not feeling lovable. because people can't love without validation. and so people never fully give themselves away to the act of loving, because when there seems to be nothing to gain, the fear takes over. and that act, the act of giving yourself foolishly selflessly wholeheartedly, is the most beautiful thing there is. and that's why love is underrated. i don’t formulate it that way — i’m really clumsy in conversation — but ultimately, that’s what i mean. and the denial. the denial as a coping mechanism. denial as a compromise. denial as protection. i hate denial.
 

-

when i sit on the bus back home i think a lot about love being under/overrated. i think love is underrated because i think people are too scared of what it can become. i think love is the purest form of emotion; the rawest exposure of human nature; and ultimately, the most beautiful one. however fleeting, however temporary. maybe even more so, then. the intensity of love, of the act of love, is grander than anything else. that’s what i think. and i don’t think a lot of people agree with me. or i think they do, because that’s the image of perfect love society has forced into our minds, but ultimately i don’t think a lot of people would make that sacrifice. put themselves on the line like that. love is about giving: and purely so. love is raw and love is masochistic and to love is to give. to receive love is not the same. and that’s why it’s such a beautiful act in itself.  

i wish i could love without fear. i wish i could love without validation. i wish i could love without having to be diplomatic about it. when i become more mentally stable, that’s the first thing i’m going to work on. to love limitlessly. to never compromise for the sake of protection. to never fear.

 

#5: a recurring thought

every human is the center of their universe and therefore all humans are too self-absorbed because life cannot be experienced outside the borders of the self. and so everything we feel and think and relate to tie back to our own experience. our world circulates around us. my problems are my problems and your problems are your problems and your problem when it becomes my problem becomes only my problem. and so your problem becomes mine, but in a different sense than it is to you because i can never know exactly what you are feeling because my sense of being alive will ultimately differ from yours. and so everything i gain from the world i internalize and make my own. and the same goes for every single human being on this earth. everything is shared but nothing is shared, really. and that's both cool and freakishly scary when you think about it. that "no man is an island", but in reality, everyone is. because we don't know any other way.

 


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a fleeting premonition (july 13)

#1: there’s no such thing as a perfect piece of writing, just as there’s no such thing as perfect despair
 
and so I walk the familiar roads leading me home. home-home; my black jeans absorbing every ray of sunshine that lund has to offer at 8am. yet again another goodbye, yet again another ”i’ll see you soon”, but with a promise so loose it no longer carries meaning. heavenly tweed and matias’ guitar plucking piercing through my headphones, every note slowly finding its way into my heart. a 2:32 masterpiece and glossy eyes that turn the world moist and shiny every time i close and open them again; like the tears make the world glisten but my heart is heavy. 
 
somehow i always end up in situations like these. ”why do I keep surrounding myself with such intricate people?” i ask carlie. i think about dry piles of saliva and cries of despair in the music room; kotch thudding in the background. i think about sleepless nights holding someone else's hand; about the longevity of the night and the frustration, the anger, the anguish. but first and foremost: the hopelessness. the 3 am despair and waking up with a feeling of excess. like there's something already dragging you down although you haven't even gotten up from bed yet; the still sun sending its stark shine through the curtains. and then carlie's soft voice interrupts my course of thought as we get off the train in malmö. "well, you could view it two ways, really. intricate or self-absorbed. i guess one is more positive than the other, but often times they mean the same thing”. maybe she’s right. i hope she is. at the same time, i hope she’s not. 

-

"why should you apologize for having a big heart?"

lack of compassion 

/

i always envy the dreamers ;

”?”

"People with dark hearts have dark dreams. Those whose hearts are even darker can't dream at all".

-

and so I dream for the first time in a long time. of the lips of old lovers and the laughter of old friends. i think i have forgotten and so my memory brings it back in the most vivid of forms, the most vivacious of sleeps; the ones where i open my eyes to cloud the real world with thoughts from my imagination, ideas from my illusion, reflections on a delusion. most times i can’t separate right from wrong; tangible from intangible; real from fake. it’s confusing.

-

when I lay in ladbroke square park with e it feels like nothing else matters than him and me and us and the little blonde naked boy running around on the grass around us, his father shouting ”you’re disturbing the lovers!” just to let out a self-satisfied smirk at us; our tangled legs on the grass in the daze of the afternoon; the sun kissing our bare arms and e's soft lips against my forehead. i’m picking at the grass, pulling the straws off the lawn with closed fists. mostly without realizing but also as a distraction; to defy reticence; because i need to keep myself occupied to keep my mind from wandering too far too deep too remote. and so i pull the green straws out of where they belong, out of their home and into the warmth of my hands just to get tossed away an inch away, ripped apart from everything that they were and turned into nothing. and so ”stop destroying the grass!” e chuckles and grabs my hand. ”here, fidget with my hand instead”. 

and so we lay there for five hours. maybe six. we lay there until the sun sets in a pale blue and the screaming children have been replaced by wine drinking parents and beer drinking businessmen taking a breather before returning back to their stressful lives. maybe. i wouldn’t know. all i know is that i have my head on e’s chest and my fingertips against his bare skin and his arms hugging me tight and warmth in my heart and his soft lips against my skin.

i fall out of reality and into love too quickly. what a wonderfully painful unfamiliarly familiar feeling.

-

#2: chapter 23

"[...] the process of thinking about people's raison d'être produced a strange frame of mind, a kind of obsession, in fact, that compelled me to convert everything in my life into numbers. This condition lasted for about eight months, during which I had to count the number of people in the car the moment I boarded a train, the number of steps of each staircase I climbed, even my own pulse if I had the time. According to my records, from August 15, 1969, until April 3rd of the following year, I attended 358 lectures, had sex 54 times, and smoked 6,921 cigarettes. I believed in all seriousness that by converting my life into numbers I might be able to get through to people. That having something to communicate could stand as proof I really existed. Of course, no one had the slightest interest in how many cigarettes I had smoked, or the number of stairs I had climbed, or the size of my penis. When I realized this, I lost my raison d’être and became utterly alone."

#3: the ocean in my head

carlie and I were playing the sims a couple of days ago and "your eyebrows are quite arched actually" carlie says as she curves the hairs on my sim. i laugh. "haha, i look so angry!". "yeah, sometimes you do actually. i was thinking about it today on the train because you got this little wrinkle between your eyebrows and you just looked kinda bothered".

/

querulous. that’s the prettiest synonym i could find for ”annoyed” in the thesaurus. i’m querulous. the crease between my eyebrows having appeared so much throughout the day that my head feels weird. so much that it’s not until i actually think about taking a deep breath and relaxing that i realize that it's there. i hate that crease. my mother gets it whenever she’s bothered; a sign of panic, fear, annoyance. that something has gone wrong, or at least not according to plan. most often it’s a misunderstanding on her part, a misinterpretation or a misjudgment. and every time it is, i feel a little embarrassed. still remember that time at the parents meeting where she couldn't understand what someone was saying and the wrinkle between her eyebrows just kept growing and my teacher got so confused because my mother looked so worried and angry about whatever nice news she was telling the rest of the parents.

for me, the wrinkle is not a reaction to surprise; not a shock nor a panic. it’s a long-lasting nagging, a deprecatory force, a scathing voice inside my head. it’s a lump in my throat and breathing becoming ten times harder; the world turning glossy and bon iver on repeat over and over again.

i yell at my dad for being impatient, for being too set in his views. i yell at him because i'm impatient too. and so he laughs at me; just like how hard it used to be to sit through a scolding in class without bursting out into laughter. i guess laughter is the best way to cope with pain, after all. 


#3: p. 88-89

She was the one who broke the silence, pounding her left fist into her right hand again and again until the palm was quite red. She stared at it with dull eyes, as if she'd lost all interest all of a sudden.

   "I hate everybody." The words hung in isolation.
   "Even me?"
   "Sorry." Blushing, she returned her hands to her knees, as if trying to pull herself together. "I don't hate you."
   "Not so much anyway, right?"

   She nodded and gave me a faint smile. When she lit her cigarette I could see her hands tremble. The smoke rode the ocean wind past her hair and vanished in the darkness. 

    "When I'm sitting alone, all these voices start speaking to me," she said. "All sorts of people—ones I know, ones I don’t know, my father, my mother, my teachers.” 
   I nodded. 
   “Most of what they say is awful. They tell me to drop dead, or say really filthy things.” 
   “What kind of things?” 
   “I can’t repeat them.” 

   She crushed the cigarette she had just lit with her leather sandal, and gently pressed her eyes with her fingertips.

   “Do you think I’m sick?” 
   “It’s hard to say.” I shook my head to show her that I really had no idea. “If you’re worried you should go see a doctor.” 
   “Don’t worry—I’ll be okay."

She lit a second cigarette and tried to laugh, but couldn’t pull it off. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told about this.” 

   I took her hand in mine. It was quivering, and a clammy sweat oozed from between her fingers. 
   “I really didn’t want to lie to you.” 
   “I know.” 

   We fell quiet again, listening to the soft sound of the waves lapping against the pier. Time went by, more time than I can recall. 
   Before I knew it she was crying. I traced the line of her tear-soaked cheek with my finger and wrapped my arm around her shoulder.


#4: facebook messages in despair

sent 6:58: "I feel so helpless"

sent 6:59: "I know it's not my fault but it feels like it 
still, you know?" "I hate it so much. it just takes up a lot of head space"

sent 7:09: "i love you tons"

sent 9:25: "Láz I miss you so much" 

-

"Need is a warehouse that could accomodate a considerable amount of cruelty"

it was nothing, but still, it was something.

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