Writing is therapy for me. Like many who require therapy, I don’t submit to it enough. It teases me at a distance, playfully hoping that one day I will catch it, but in the mean time, remains just out of reach.
She remains just out of reach.
I see her in my mind. Shapeshifting, she confuses me. She eludes me. Do I know her? Probably not. Will I? I fear…
Nothing…. and yet everything.
Who am I, and what am I saying? My friends don’t know me. If they only knew the life I lived in the shadows. If only those who knew my life in the shadows knew of my life in the light.
I’m torn in two, woven together by the threads of sanity. But what a frail sanity that is.
Fuck you.
You know who you are. You’re reading this right now. You’re… writing this right now.
I don’t hate who I could be. I hate who I am. With every new day, I look at the past and think, “At least I’m not who I was then.” Yet a small part of me misses that old me. It’s a co-dependency — I must dismiss it.
Anyways, tomorrow will be the start of the new year. I can’t believe it’s already 2055. According to the death calender, this will be the year of my passing. What can I claim as accomplishments in my life? Upon reflection, will I mourn my failures to invoke my dreams? Or will I rejoice with what I have done for my family, my friends, myself?
I’ll have to give this more thought — tomorrow.
