It feels so simple. [Maybe I should talk about something that actually matters.]

The point is, I'm crazy. I've been told I'm crazy, wildly crazy---by a friend with questionable sense of morality. I give the best advice on interpersonal relationships in all the people I know and in reality I can't keep one friend ---well I guess certain people would consider themselves my friends, but deep down there's that thing with harbouring myself too much. I lurk in the shadows, and I've tried coming out of it but something lingers in the back of my mind, and I end up feeling even worse than when I was just the shadow ---I felt almost...psychotic. Here's a word of personal experience on facing your fears: it don't work.

I used to think I knew exactly what my problem was, I've tried to change. I've become a completely different person in the past year ---from the outside, at least; people who knew me in the past no longer recognise me when we run into one another on the streets. I liked the anonymity, for a while, but now I'm at a loss of recognition of what I want. I'm complex and confusing - aren't we all? - and I'm a walking contradiction. I live on both extremes and I can't settle for common ground, even if I'm compromising my sanity in the meantime. This is frustrating, I know. I'm frustrating to people who, in turn, frustrate me. But what do you do after you've tried and still failed? 

Today on the train a girl in a fur-lined hoodie with pink highlights in her hair drew a heart on the rain-fogged glass window with her fingertip. I sometimes think that if not for moments like these, whimsical, profound moments - and if not for my ability to write - I might possibly not make it. Having that thought scares me, but at the same time I'm aware of how much the writing matters, and putting all the thought and effort into it has given a strange sort of meaning to my life. People - writers - always tell me about feedback, or the need for feedback, or their personal experiences with it.  I write for me. And I mean it when I say that I write for me. It is literally, each letter and every word, saving my life. And they would never know it.

This is my confession. This is my elegy. I just hope that one day I won't be writing this in blood, when I walk along the straight path and look back to see nothing at all - nothing. People define themselves too much with their respective complexities. I just want to feel the privilege of not knowing again, like everyone else who pretend otherwise.

Around the corner the street light hums and flickers with the last breath of a dying star in the april night sky. I am afraid, really.

      Sometimes it takes all my courage just to do the simplest things--I avoid decisions; I avoid exposure; I avoid life, in all the pavement cracks and lined jean pockets it could hide in. I have tried to choose. I have tried to not choose. I have chosen and failed and pretended I had meant to not choose all along. Whatever; doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm still here, and I'm still me, after all these years of guessing games and truth-or-dares I'm back here, writing the exact same things, feeling somewhat identical to the way I had felt the first time round.

      I used to think people waste relationships, waste love. Overlooking the care and concern from their loved ones, insisting in their own stubborn mistakes. I used to think, if I were them, that I would hold onto every chance, every moment and never let go--that I would make things right. But now I realise I couldn't. They were not wasted, they did the best they could; and I--as much as I wanted--couldn't. I don't want to push people away, but sometimes it seems like all I can do. I don't want to put up, to pretend, and spew out for the millionth time things that I had already told half the world to the other half, things that I'm not sure I believed in in the first place.

      I dislike poetry--the affectation, the egotism--why be coy and confounding? Why not just say what you want to say? Why be untrue, when you are shattering the world and someone's existence with your lies.~

Life is unmistakable. I fear judgement; I fear change.

I fear losing myself, yet I am so afraid I'll never be close to anyone because I can't open up. I like silence, because there's a quality of perfection - of something beyond; the unreachable - attached to it. If I can't say something significant - something to the core of life, of thought, of feeling - I'll say nothing at all. I hate to be pointless.

People tell me, you look sad (I'm not aware of it). And why wouldn't I be, when there is so much that I want - plans, wishes, fulfillments - that I feel so lost. I don't know how to get what I want; I don't know what they are. All there is is an emptiness that spans my existence and expands, silently, reminding me of what I lack, of what I am not. The lines blur. Some days I almost like it this way - this is who I am supposed to be. This is different; this is alive. Some days I wish I could change, go far away, start afresh, live a new life. The dissolution between reality and that second, more comforting reality in my mind - what makes me sad is the latter is real, too.