The Depression Diaries, n°64: 24

24.

It has been weeks since I've had a proper sleep. There's something in my eyes that can't match all of the other eyes; I think of it as a door I keep open even though I know only the wicked ones are coming, at least they bring some excitement. I'd rather go blind than be bored and this says a lot about how I'm living.

24.

I'm waiting for them. I'm waiting for you, I'm waiting for me. Just imagine we're somewhere else and nothing can harm you; if we make it I can get a deal. You know I never care about myself, so let's not be pointless. I wish this was a love story. An adventure story, a fantasy story. Life is already depressing enough to a melodic character to be interesting. Let's propose I walk forward on my own; can you imagine that? I want to walk backwards into my past years and protect myself from my ghosts. I never made it, it never got better.

24.

I love colors. Sometimes it's too bright and I can't stay still, but as soon as I touch it, just fits. My hand in the paint and it almost speaks to me. There's this trick I try every time to receive the answers I need, it never works therefore I wait. If you take a closer look, people are made of tiny fabrics of speckles like a kaleidoscope, it's astonishing and tragic; can't bring myself to really hate them. Of course it's because I'm a coward, sorry for forgetting to be clear about that. Only cowards hate their own skin tones, only cowards and martyrs, if you needed I'd still die for you though. You can see I'm a fool, a person shouldn't be that ready to die at such a young age. Not 24, but 14. 10 years in the making of an earthquake, the only patching up I get is forgetfulness and the way you laugh with your mouth wide open up and I swear I see butterflies coming out of it, when you laugh so hard and get an asthma attack because it's worthy. 

24.

The devil does not exist. Take that affirmation as an universal truth for a second. Look inside your guts, in your blood; it's you. Deep down you know. There's more blood about living that you could've imagined and it's okay, just keep breathing, I am too. These violent battles and dreadful acts are nothing but a brief look at the mirror; keep them locked up and smile, nothing to lose sleep over (they say). I accept that you are the way you are and I still love you and it's almost not fair how you get to be a goddamn aurora boreal, you can't see your own sparkling aura but I did, I do, I swear I do. 

24. 

Contrary to popular belief, I can let go of things that don't fit the picture anymore. At least it's me getting hurt, it's a Jane Doe; I can take it, I'm used to it. Honestly being so full of shit my entire life made me expect a knife in my liver at anytime; it's not about rightfulness or pity, expect expect expect and that's the only thing you'll think you deserve. Don't fret, I'm always waiting for the non boring things to happen like the little mediocre bitch that I am. Letting go means bittersweet juices and cupcakes and my drilled hand trying to hold corpses. There was a time where I wished for good things to happen; no longer after that I realized I don't know how they look like anymore. Happiness isn't the same to everyone, however the common factor is wanting to share it. So be in a pair; make one, invent one, go to find one. My letting go is flawed, despite my efforts. Some days I still let the door open to people I know that won't come back anymore — just to stop breathing for a moment, I need it. This is not healing, it's damage control. Good luck with these two hundred cracks on my skin, no light on these obsidian walls, no rope for escaping. I'd still help you, because your hands are cotton and silk, if you let me touch it for this long you'll get burned. Count until three and let go.

24.

On August 6 2012, the mars rover Curiosity landed on Mars. It sings a birthday melody for itself every August 6, alone, on a fucking planet of sand storms. Everything should be made in pairs, if you ask me. Even God supposedly understood that, that one God that later wrote some bullshit saying that one of the them is inferior. Things and humans aren't made to be alone, anywhere. Do you think it would despise you, it's Creator, if it had to spend their life spans singing to it selves? Don't overthink, let me bring you back to the singing. There's birthdays where I lock my bedroom's door and spend the day sleeping until the day ends; there's birthdays that I sit on the floor with a cake without candles and cry until my body passes out; in some birthdays I tell everybody to fuck off and I sing silly birthday songs to myself, scrolling through the internet to see if anyone remembered me even though I'm always MIA and wait, here comes the expectations and nobody gets to beat them, it's a kobayashi maru, nobody is in my head. Some birthdays people say they love me and I can't bring myself to give a shit, not their fault. People try to sing to me and I feel even more like crap, I don't want to make wishes, I don't want hugs, I don't want more birthdays. I don't want to be alone anymore, but I'm always fighting invisible monsters and it's so hard to feel real again and reach out. I prefer the birthdays I sing to myself, they're little bread crumbs marking the way back home, which is useless because there's no such thing. So just sit on this empty corn field and scream til there's only void in your flammable throat; come to find me after that, I'm always waiting. That way, your silence fills me with a love you didn't know it was was an option; you never thought it could be like this. It will kill me someday, but the door is unlocked and I still manage to have hope. This is what masochism looks like.