THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
Right now feels like a good time to generate some deep, mind-provoking quote.
But that seems like one of the stupidest things I could possibly do.
Funny how our motives change over time. How different things become important.
I think I read every diary I've ever written, from third grade to present today.
Including this one. And all the other ones that I don't talk about. That I try not to think about.
It's a scary thing.
To see yourself go from this innocent little kid, to this stupid self-obsessed bossy bitch...To... Well, this.
This, where I've kind of landed as result of years of ignorance and self inflicted drama.
It's rather exhausting.
I always took things for granted. Which is something I'm careful not to do now. Because after awhile, how lucky you really are hits you in the face and knocks you to the ground, and you realize that it's concrete and not daisies.
I think I filled about three plus notebooks with shit about how the whole world was against me and how nothing was fair and how I didn't have real friends.
I always used to put myself above people. I was always the one running things.
And so I'm left wondering what exactly happened to flip the tables.
I'm not not running things. I just run them only for myself. And I don't put myself above people, because I'm not. There are better people out there, and there are also worse. And my friends are as real as it gets. And always have been.
Now.
Now I'm just some kid learning to see how fucking lucky she really is and sticking her head out windows, just to find a spiderweb in her face and a neighbor's porch light that blocks out all the starlight.
And even though artificial sunlight is cutting off what I'm looking for, I can still hear the ocean. Which is more than most people can say.
Why does it feel so wrong to relate to something with every single bone in your body?