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I’m not sure why journaling seems like something I need right now. Perhaps it stems from the desire to feel heard, in a world that never seems to hear me - for as asinine as that may sound, given the fact that this is nothing more than an old bundle of paper.
But to be seen, to be known, is something I desire with far more intensity than I ever felt before. Though, to be fair, perhaps the better way to say it is that I never had the time, nor the energy, to care about how seen I was, but I don’t suppose formality matters when one is merely putting quill to parchment and carving their heart into the pages.
This shouldn’t be formal. You’re right, journal. So in the spirit of having a single space where I can drop all pretences - I am fucking spiralling. I knew the fall would come, once everything was done and the dust settled.
I just never anticipated I’d shatter when I hit the ground. Funny, that.
-H
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Today was a good day.
I lay in the sun, on a blanket in the grass for hours, re-reading ‘The Hours’ for the third time since it came out last month. I wouldn’t even consider it a story I’m particularly fond of, but there’s something to be said for the way the stories are interwoven, I suppose.
It was also just the only book in my bag, because I’m in the process of cleaning it out before we leave in a few days, so, there’s that.
I get more anxious than ever now when I watch my friends fly. I think they’re all so used to me having my nose stuck in a book, though, so nobody notices.
I could fill a swimming pool with the things that people fail to notice, but I can never work out whether or not I even want them to notice.
It’s no concern of mine tonight, though. It was a good day, my stomach is full to bursting, and I have two nights left in this bed, so I’m going to soak it up. This year should be good, I think. It COULD be good. I just need to get out of my head, yeah?
-H
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Every once in a while, everyone looks around as if they’re lost, for the briefest of moments, before they fix their faces.
Sometimes I wonder if they’re looking for ghosts; there are more now than there ever were before.
Other times, I think that maybe they feel it, too. Is it wrong to say I hope they do?
But then they smile, and they laugh, and they move through the world as if they are weightless. But here I sit, with weights tied to my ankles, sinking beneath the surface of the wreckage left behind.
Sinking. An apt descriptor, because this feels like nothing short of drowning. It’s like I’m taking water into my lungs, waving my hands in the air to beg for help and everyone is sitting on the shore with their faces turned to the sun, soaking up the light as if it didn’t take more darkness than anyone is willing to name to bring it back.
-H
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Everything sucks.
I suck.
The world sucks.
This stupid, lingering sense of dread, this aching discomfort that refuses to allow my weary bones to rest fucking sucks.
I wake in the night; I pace holes into the floor in my stupid fuzzy slippers. I dream of freezing marble tile biting into my face, of knives carving into my skin, of spindly hands cracking open my ribcage and pulling out my heart, bony fingers tearing little chunks out of the core of my being and shoving it down my throat. I thrash and scream and they-
They all just smile. They laugh. They act as if it doesn’t hurt to breathe. Maybe it doesn’t hurt, for them. Maybe I’m the only one who feels this ache in my chest? Maybe I’m insane.
-H
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With all due respect to whatever you're going through, who are you, and how the fu...
Is this a prank?
How did you get this journal???
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