I feel like nowadays is the most appropriate time, probably in the entirety of my lifetime, to do a lot of writing, but I have been procrastinating, or should I say, avoiding it. Until moments ago. I guess.
I didn't know really if I should, in a normal person's sense, do a lot of crying and all, but I guess I did a really good job at repressing everything until oneself felt guilty for not feeling anything and, well, having a really huge chance of exploding and crumbling and falling apart at any other second.
I will start this piece of writing by stating: the first months of 2016 was one of - I dare not say the best as I am slightly optimistic and super indecisive, but definitely - the best one so far, during the 20 years of my lifespan. Had a chance to live the way I've always dreamed of (although for only such a short period), traveled quite often, experienced freedom the way I don't even dare imagine, published a 170 pages zine, highest gpa ever in 3 years at uni, friended so many interesting new people (something I would never expect back in high school), I have been truly, truly blessed. Something that I am very well aware of, but still doesn't feel right. I know it shouldn't feel right and I guess I have been, sort of, expecting a downfall in the next split second, ever since, well, ever.
I remember writing something during those few months ago, that I was not really what you would call 'happy'. I'm sure I was content, truly, but not happy. Empty even, sometimes. I started writing a lot (not that its a bad thing) and just, not care about anything. I can feel myself not caring and I knew it wasn't right, but
It literally amuse me how fragile life is. How fragile anything is; our emotions, the worth of one's beauty, one's idea of happiness, one's well being, everything. There is almost nothing that is absolute in the world. The only certainty is uncertainty itself. I could feel totally happy with even the smallest of things, like genuine pure happiness, only to burst into tears the next second over the sudden realization of the 'departure' for quite sometime of someone really close to my heart. I could blush upon being called beautiful years ago, only to find nowadays a simple 'you don't look like a sick person' could make my day.
I shall end this post by writing down what have been repeated in the back of my mind for the last several days but I dare not say out loud: you have always been different, an irony, contradiction, a paradox; you have always been miserable in every favorable terms in almost every aspect of your life, you have spent it preparing for this. Why would you waste your almost entire teen life defying people's expectation by showing them your true, sappy melancholic weak ass self in the face of trouble?
Never let other people know that they get you.