You are the past that I would rather not recall, so it's ironic that it's you who never changed and now you're stuck. You know what? You don't even know it.
I grow increasingly hesitant to talk about love. The possibility of having it wrenched away almost chokes me into a panic I cannot express.

Allow me a moment to recollect my thoughts. Because we are no longer young, nor innocent. In gaining all that we have now, in achieving these not-so-ordinary successes we've left behind a childhood we cannot get back. What a wonderful mistake to  be thinking of yourself as significant, as mature when you were only just on the brink of it all, quite unprepared for what it would bring. But here you are nonetheless, better prepared for.. yet more unpreparedness, with so much lost and so much to be wistful for. Learning how to cherish anew everything you took granted as a part of yourself, but now it slips away, and now you watch it fade. And here you are, no longer part of this landscape, and it no longer protects you. My point is not a desire to go back, but something quite different..just a degree of comfort. That's what I wish for. But all the same... all the same.

Most of the time the things you convince yourself to laugh at are not laughable at all. They are painful reminders of a past that was ruthless in its ability to devastate you till you were reduced to less than nothing, till you curled up into yourself, both in the physical and the psychological parts of your existence. Till you cried until there were no more tears. You laugh because it is easier to recall the ridiculous in all of it, as opposed to the painful.
You laugh because you have yourself convinced that nothing will ever get through to you that way again.
Except that it's not funny.
It's not funny to remember how it actually was.

You learn to block it out. You learn to like... not like, like would be the wrong word to use. You learn to accept the silence, and live with how much quieter life seems to become every year. It becomes a habit to the point that when you look around yourself without feeling this or that, it doesn't strike you as strange that things do not ignite curiosity, that they no longer beg you to be looking for something else.
This is all you ever aspired to be, and it's funny because now you have to figure out where to go from here onwards, and that seems to be the most difficult part. To be able to decide whether it's not knowing what you want, or being hesitant about wanting for fear of not getting it; which one of these prevents you from saying, from imagining?

You were are special. Now it takes convincing, validation, allowing the outside into your own separate self. This would be sacrilege before, but now it's just life. Sometimes you wonder if this slow dying has something to do with home, and how home fades away a little more everyday, loses some more blood. But then it makes you smirk at yourself, because this is pretentious and who has time for an existential crisis anyway? It doesn't even mean anything. You can't touch what's in your head, and if you can't touch it, how are you feeling it?

You ask yourself if you're happy. You convince yourself that you are.

I wonder if realizing the world is a lot bigger than us and what we think of it stops us from trying to think about it altogether. Is being ungrateful sometimes a good thing?

Tumultuous year. First month in. So overwhelmed. Dearest Moho, I love you and all... but.