Don't ask me what this is about.
It's difficult for me to come to terms with what I've been missing for the past few months. Times spent alone is bad for me, I think. If I'm not sleeping or wasting time talking to people I've never met, I'm thinking about the ones who don't even exist. It's like I'm holding conversations and crying with shadows, tucked tightly under the covers while I try to escape the reality of his rejection.
The fact that all of this is repeating tells me that I'm still the same. Is it really possible that I've not matured or learned anything since I was 18? In 3 days I'll be 22. Exactly 4 years after my surrender to silly ideals and romantic illusions. Last time it happened I was more naive so I recorded all my secrets in html documents, selectively locking them from the ones I was envious of. The only difference now is that my mouth is closed and my secrets are hidden between class notes and to do lists. But that doesn't change a thing. I'm still the same little girl who believes in characters and stories that end the way I want them to, bewitched by half-jokes and pretty girls in thick winter coats. You'd think that enough disappointments would have taught me that things never end the way I want them to. You'd think all that would have taught me that I'll always be the secondary character. But I'm still the same stubborn, foolishly hopeful person I 've always been. The loser and not the winner. The Anna to her Summer. The friend to the girlfriend. Maybe it was my fault to have remained so wordless for so many years but everything that had meant anything have already been etched in the palm of his hands. He just was never looking down in my direction.
The only reason I'm not sobbing into my books or screaming on the bedroom floor is because I know there's more important things in life than this.
The fact that all of this is repeating tells me that I'm still the same. Is it really possible that I've not matured or learned anything since I was 18? In 3 days I'll be 22. Exactly 4 years after my surrender to silly ideals and romantic illusions. Last time it happened I was more naive so I recorded all my secrets in html documents, selectively locking them from the ones I was envious of. The only difference now is that my mouth is closed and my secrets are hidden between class notes and to do lists. But that doesn't change a thing. I'm still the same little girl who believes in characters and stories that end the way I want them to, bewitched by half-jokes and pretty girls in thick winter coats. You'd think that enough disappointments would have taught me that things never end the way I want them to. You'd think all that would have taught me that I'll always be the secondary character. But I'm still the same stubborn, foolishly hopeful person I 've always been. The loser and not the winner. The Anna to her Summer. The friend to the girlfriend. Maybe it was my fault to have remained so wordless for so many years but everything that had meant anything have already been etched in the palm of his hands. He just was never looking down in my direction.
The only reason I'm not sobbing into my books or screaming on the bedroom floor is because I know there's more important things in life than this.