121 - reasons to live
long conversations with people you barely know.
kind messages from friends that you didn't expect.
being someone's reassurance just by existing.
"everyones gonna leave me one day but not you probably"
cigarettes and coffee and the wind and the way the air is slightly too cold.
the clarity that comes with being quietly suicidal every day for years and years.
being alive is about being kind. it doesnt change or fix anything. the world is still broken and painful and wrong, but there's solace in being kind anyway.
going to have dumplings with your friends(?) on a thursday afternoon.
the nostalgia of that one relationship that you fucked up terribly but still reminisce about.
the nostalgia of all those relationships you fucked up terribly.
knowing that people are trying even if they're really quite bad at it.
sleeping on your friend's floor and knowing its gonna be okay. it has to be.
obsessing over the little things. little joys. little moments of sillyness.
an apology made of fear and longing and hope all smushed together and indistingushable.
all of my reasons to live are also good reasons not to. sometimes you have to wait for a day when you are finally content at last, and choose to leave it at that.
the way the moon is always a little different every night, but always there one way or another.
the bats that fly overhead and scare the shit out of you as you're walking home late at night.
furniture on the side of the road. scrap wood that could become something. leftovers and dreams.
the slop sitting in the fridge. the friend who made it despite knowing you probably wouldn't be there.
one more day. one more night. one more day. every night.
looking for reasons in the stupidist of places. in people who you know won't provide, but you'll give them the chance over and over because it's what you'd want them to do too.
remembering the smell of your hair and your clothes and the first time it became so deeply recognisable.
the fuzz on my legs and the way its unstoppably spreading up my arms, like moss on branches. a fungus of meat and bone and keratin.
empty water bottles on other people's desks.
pleasant lies and make believe and fantasies, and unbearable truths.
reality and imagination and delusion.
i'm looking and looking and finding so many and none of them quite fit together. none of it is enough.
what tone are you reading this in? is it hopeful? is it defeated? is it inevitable? is it devoid? all of them are true.
will it be over tomorrow? i dont know. i'll ask myself that every day forever until it is, i think.
i'll love you forever now, i think. whoever you are. wherever you are.
the girl on the other side of the world, dressed in gold and blue.
all of the things i left behind because i wrongly thought i didn't need them.
tonight? tomorrow? who knows.
you can make it up. you can pretend whatever you want.
100 dead and the world still turns. 1,000 dead and the world only turns faster.
writing a letter to yourself that you may never read.
a family who remembers you whether you're there or not. especially when you're not.
pot plants and spiders and little rocks and dexamphetamines.
the world keeps turning. i keep breathing, whether it's air or blood or smoke or water. i just keep breathing.
tonight, maybe. or tomorrow. or right now. i don't know. you'll never be sure till it happens. is that any way to live?
a broken girl in a broken world of broken reasons.
can anyone claim to find more than that?