Give yourself permission to be sad once in a while. It won’t kill you.
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Give yourself permission to be sad once in a while. It won’t kill you.
Relationships of all kinds are tested with how they handle their first (or any?) fight.
I’ve had so few fights with friends. I wondered why before I realised that I’m usually ghosted first.
November 26, 2024
Those who plan their own demise can choose exactly how long to grieve their own end before they go.
A friend recently mentioned jealousy in a conversation, which got me thinking…
I don’t get jealous so much. I don’t hate others — I just can get very very sad if I lose something important, and internalize it. I have a problem with myself, not the other.
I suppress the surges, even when I don’t mean to.
They swell, then subside.
I swallow and swallow and swallow them. I push them so far down, I think they must be gone.
Empty in the outer layers, but, underneath, tiny vibrations, too far away to register with a label, yet present enough to remind me of my worth.
I’m screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming
to myself, silently
into the dark
hoping for catharsis
but I’m still just as fucked
Cobain sang about not having a gun, but ate a 20-gauge.
Benington…
Avicii…
I would love to believe that if they had chosen the other path, they would be glad today that they did.
How do others find the courage?
If I can’t get better, maybe I’d rather reach that level where I can finally act rather than remain in limbo.
I write not on account of skill, as I am certainly lacking. Rather, I write because there is a deep need, vast and cluttered with dust clouds and a few faint stars and violent storms and ocean tides and evergreen forests and cycles of the moon and heartaches and hope for life and quiet pleas for death or sleep and a real person turned away, hidden, who I can never become.
The writing will continue until I’ve purged so much need, there’ll be no more words to be said, or my end has arrived — whichever comes first.
If I were to suddenly die unexpectedly, no warning at all, no time to prepare; part of me today wants all of these words spread to all who knew me.
But the catch here is that I can’t care about any of it after I’m gone, so it really makes no difference either way.