books

19.07

I have always kept you closer than you've known.

10.06

i don’t know whether to hate you for what you did, to hate myself for what i did, or just force myself into acceptance because if it’s something i still think about then clearly it’s something i’m not over. i never tell people the real story, because i know you’re innocent. maybe it’s for self preservation reasons, maybe it’s shame, or the knowledge that telling the truth wouldn’t really do anything different because we’re well past the point of change now.

but you still fucked up. just not with that. with me. yet nobody knows that part, not even you, because for some reason i was giving you and everyone else the rite of passage into ignorance. maybe cause i was scared to tell you how i felt. angry would be the word, i think. but i can't tell.

and i guess i truly didn’t understand it then either, because i didn’t say anything, yet i understand it now. i wish i was able to know for sure, because maybe if i had let it out back then i wouldn’t be letting it out in a poorly written letter over a year later when i should be letting things go.

9.06

maybe there is a part of me that is purely ostentatious. with the ones i admire i am talkative and outspoken. with friends i am brash. at home and around my father i’m awkward and reserved. yet alone, my face becomes blank.
i always thought it was normal to feel a sort of internal vacancy, but apparently it’s not universal. despite a changing of appearance, i am regularly offered a lingering emptiness and i find it is a hand i constantly grasp.

figuring out what i want in life is another one of those things. deep down despite my surface objectives, i am almost completely apathetic towards everything and as such i have no real goals or dreams. all i can think of is having enough money to live comfortably, whatever that means to me. it is hard to learn to be authentically me after just going along with the motions for so many years.

i don't know what i want. there is nothing that i truly love in the sense that nothing brings me pleasure as it would to others. i feel like some sort of empty vessel, like a carcass of someone that should be much more interesting, or whole, and i am just trying to live up to her.

7.06

sometimes i think about things; but real things that aren’t just the material and menial that i distract myself with most of the time. and when i think about things i come to conclusions that i feel are inane, but i know are true. i miss you. and i can’t even deny it, because i’d be lying to myself. i don’t know why i miss you - hell if i knew, but all i know is that i do. and i hate it.

i hate it because you made me happy and i’m only realising with you gone i’ve only crept back into the state of depression i was in the year before i knew you like that. i remember thinking i was free of sadness and depravity and despair, i told everyone i felt free and happy and i couldn’t even make myself upset if i tried.

and i did try, i unironically made the attempt to plunge myself back into that state because for some senseless reason i got mad i was feeling good for once. the melancholy was comfortable, it was home, almost, and it was something i knew well more than anything. i guess even if i give myself something good, i’d just take it upon myself to revert to nothingness. instinct, i guess. i can’t let myself be happy.

but without you, i just let myself slip back into that state. of course, i didn’t really make those connections before today, but i think i knew it in the back of my mind. things are different, things have changed, and things will never, ever be the same.