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Tears. They spill hot and wet down my face. That's all I can give myself as comfort.
I've forgotten what that feels like. To be comfortable. To not constantly imagine what you look like on the outside, to be sure that you're not frowning too much, to avoid the trouble of being questioned and lying. Saying that you're okay.
It's funny, when people ask you how you are, they don't really want to know.
It's funny. I've forgotten how I used to laugh.
Well, it's not that I don't laugh. I do. Shallow, momentary laughter, that means absolutely nothing. Sometimes I laugh because there are things that I used to find funny, but don't any more. It's funny because it's supposed to be funny, but is not.
I told someone that and they told me to see a shrink, after much eye-rolling.
A shrink. Sometimes I feel like I could drive a shrink to suicide. That's nearly how frustrated I feel.
Frustration. That's been on the top of my mood-ring-colour list. I haven't told anyone that. They tell me that I can only be happy if I let myself.
Happiness. It feels like something floating off the ground, a satellite in space, a dream I can't recall clearly but miss.
Like something I vaguely remember having, like the Rapunzel Barbie I had when I was three or the bicycle from when I was five.
Like something nostalgic, not real.
Not that I can distinguish between real things and illusions right now. With the film of tears in my eyes, everything is shimmering and hazing into semi-nonexistence. The shards of broken dreams are slicing into my utterly too human, real heart.
Dreams. I remember believing in them. I remember cherishing them as a part of my future. I remember loving them.
Love. Isn't that what I've always looked for? Isn't it the ultimate desire everyone has, the end-all and be-all of life?
Isn't it what I've always craved?
And never recognised?
I remember thinking that I would find love and happiness.
I look up at the stars, my tears making them look bigger and more diffused than the cold points they really are.
And despite all of the heaviness in my chest, somewhere, I feel glad that I can feel at all.
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This article has 2 comments.
44 articles 2 photos 131 comments
Everything makes sense if you think too much about it.
Thanks. That's sweet.
8 articles 0 photos 30 comments
If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.
--Dorothy Parker, referring to Oscar Wilde
Breathtaking. I--I know this isn't exactly constructive criticism. But honestly, it's so beautifully raw. It's just perfect in itself. Not cold and jagged, but torn worn out and so...real. So so beautiful.
My favorite part: "I look up at the stars, my tears making them look bigger and more diffused than the cold points they really are."
:') I love this.
Keep the Realistic Fiction coming, please.