Long story short. I am super lazy to explain why I'm being like this

My God, my God, whose performance am I wat-ching? How many people am I ? Who am I ? What is this space between myself and myself?

I am still so naive. I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please don't ask me who I am. A passionate fragmentary girl maybe?

Do i believe in love? I believe in suffocating obsession and sudden disinterest.

Itswhatitis

I wish math didn't exist. I never needed it for any specific situation, so why should I spend 3 hours finding x when I don't need it in my life? I'm only seventeen. Shouldn't I be wrestling with the big questions, the ones that actually matter? Why are we here? How do we make sense of it all? Instead, I'm drowning in formulas, memorizing equations that feel utterly meaningless. What about the real equation, the one that solves the mystery of my own existence? When, how, will I ever shake this feeling that being here, being me, is some kind of cosmic joke?

I am tucking myself back again. Its like I have a life cycle. There are moments I bloom, unfurling my petals and spreading my roots. I meet all sorts of bees and birds and see the other flowers blooming along side me. But then there is an almost imperceptible shift. My petals start to wither and my leaves start to shrivel. All of a sudden I dont feel so welcome among the forest floor anymore. The sun is too bright, the smell of pollen cloying, the ground too wet. And piece by piece I shrink. I curl into myself, leaves closing over my heart like a giant mouth.

I really be like waking up tired like wtf did I even sleep for.

I pretty good at acting dead that my own family forgot I'm alive

When I reread what I've written, I feel like I'm swallowing my own vomit.

The soul is silent. If it speaks at all, it speaks in dreams. And you, my dear, reek of dreams so much

A chameleon, I shift through a thousand roles, embracing each with fleeting conviction. I am a saint on Sundays, bathed in righteous light, only to weep inconsolably come Monday's dawn.



I have striven to anchor both of my feet on the ground, to shed the shackles of neurosis, to temper the fires of romanticism, to quell the destructive impulses that haunt my soul. But perhaps these are merely disguises, masks worn to conceal the very demons I so desperately seek to exorcise. Perhaps I am doomed to forever dance on the edge of sanity, a beautiful, tragic figure caught in the endless cycle of fabrication

You had this expression on your face, like you weren't quite sure you were supposed to be on Earth.

I be saying drown in my love and lose my ability to form speech the next second