Saccharine.

im just surfing facebook and looking at very normal pictures of girls in hotels and friends eating restaurant food and people visiting beautiful man made places like aquariums where people had money to buy fishes and store them and suddenly freaking out about how lucky we are in the first world
I think nobody remembers.. I think nobody cares
what are we all doing

‘Help, somebody, please save me’
Is what she wanted to shout
but she thought to herself before speaking,
why is she being a burden to everyone?
Why is she expecting someone to save her?
oh and why isnt she saving herself?

all my first world problemsssss where do they all come from
*sings to Eleanor rigby tune

you’re holding it in
you’re pouring a drink
nothing is as bad as it seems
we’ll come clean

i’m sitting on my sofa, its really quiet cause somehow everyone’s asleep by 10pm and im thinking about how I’ve been here for most of the day and under utilizing my time, underappreciating my youth. wasting my life.

her voice rings in my head once in a while ‘have to try to get out of it’ and i stray off to my weakness and inherent incapabilities. i think about my grandfather.. i remember how even with the loss of an empire, with the impact of his life, we would come home to him sitting in his chair and smiling that smile once he saw us through the open door.

i think that if he was me he would maximise my life. be all awesome and unaffected and positive cause he knew his priorities. 

As my heart beats hard right now and i as usual feel too damn tired to type to anyone or bother to communicate my senseless feelings, I just wait it out. I’m wasting everything, i’m decomposing
is there something i can do about it?

I think i’m going crazy. But i just have to endure it for at least a year more. right? 

ridiculous.

I am ridiculous. life is hilarious
life is amazing and beautiful
and fucking fun and screwed up and pointless when i’m trying to live it for me

Freedom is in your heart- i quote fairytail mages. the concept of freedom has been plaguing me for years, i cannot stand it. i cannot stand not being able to live your life the way we want to, i cannot stand restrictions and harm being placed on people in the world, i cannot stand societal regulations and perceptions that imprison people. but maybe, i have been silly and unwise all along.

Sabrina said to me today to imagine what i would want to be doing now, if i could be doing anything- if i didn’t have to care about work or money or school. i just smiled. she fucking said she would do interior design. hahaha.

I just remembered.. that i can’t even remember the last thing you said to me. it may be something like ‘maybe you make sense’ or ‘yeah you make sense’ or maybe its not even that. and you sounded so sweet and soft, but most of all you sounded sad.

im starving but i have no appetite.
im tired but i can’t sleep
i sleep but i keep having nightmares, consecutively, for 4 years
i miss you but i can’t be with you (you’re sleeping)
i love you but im restricted in my profession of love.

Slow it down, make it stop
Or else my heart is going to pop
cause it’s too much, yeah it’s a lot
to be something I’m not

I’m just a little girl lost in the moment
I’m so scared but I don’t show it
I can’t figure it out
It’s bringing me down
I know, I’ve got to let it go

I’m just a little bit caught in the middle
I don’t know where to go
can’t do it alone
I’ve tried, I don’t know why

just enjoy the show!

Cecilia, the youngest, only thirteen, had gone first, slitting her wrists like a Stoic while taking a bath, and when they found her, afloat in her pink pool, with the yellow eyes of someone possessed and her small body giving off the odor of a mature woman, the paramedics had been so frightened by her tranquillity that they had stood mesmerized. But then Mrs. Lisbon lunged in, screaming, and the reality of the room reasserted itself: blood on the bath mat; Mr. Lisbon’s razor sunk in the toilet bowl, marbling the water. The paramedics fetched Cecilia out of the warm water because it quickened the bleeding, and put a tourniquet on her arm. Her wet hair hung down her back and already her extremities were blue. She didn’t say a word, but when they parted her hands they found the laminated picture of the Virgin Mary she held against her budding chest.
That was in June, fish-fly season, when each year our town is covered by the flotsam of those ephemeral insects. Rising in clouds from the algae in the polluted lake, they blacken windows, coat cars and street-lamps, plaster the municipal docks and festoon the rigging of sailboats, always in the same brown ubiquity of flying scum. Mrs. Scheer, who lives down the street, told us she saw Cecilia the day before she attempted suicide. She was standing by the curb, in the antique wedding dress with the shorn hem she always wore, looking at a Thunderbird encased in fish flies. “You better get a broom, honey,” Mrs. Scheer advised. But Cecilia fixed her with her spiritualist’s gaze. “They’re dead,” she said. “They only live twenty-four hours. They hatch, they reproduce, and then they croak. They don’t even get to eat.”’ And with that she stuck her hand into the foamy layer of bugs and cleared her initials: C.L.