I just want to write for the sake of writing and maybe try to put some rationality into my scattered thoughts. Everything’s just scattered into fragments. Some clear, but most aren’t. All screaming, trying to make a point. I don’t know what they’re trying to say here, making their existence rather useless, and thus rendered to oblivion… But I am trying to salvage whatever it is. Maybe I can justify their existence and try to give them life.

I don’t know what I’m blabbering about.

But what I can tell you now is that I am okay. We are okay. For now. And maybe that’s enough. I’m not asking for much anyway. But what comes next after this is what I’m stressing about. To make the long and sad story short, we can be homeless in any minute. Oh, and my mother is back too plus an additional sister. So we’re one big happy family again. (But that’s another story) Anyway, my mom is saying that everything will be okay as long as we’re together. As cruel as this my sound, I have trouble in digesting that fact. Let alone finding comfort in them. As long as we’re together. I’m not sure how much our togetherness will do for us. Because as far as the circumstances are concerned, it doesn’t care whether we are whole or not. That has nothing to do with it. Unless one of us starts doing something—anything—to even slightly improve the situation, then nothing is ever going to happen. I don’t mean to seem bitter nor angry, but this is the reality of it all.

I’m not making any sense.

“In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.”

—Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies

Within my heart is an absence of feeling. Within my mind is the lack of imagination and vocabulary suitable enough to describe the emptiness that resides within the whole of my being.

“I am half agony, half hope.”—Jane Austen

“I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.”

—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

“I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.”

—Edgar Allan Poe

“My melancholy is the most faithful sweetheart I have had.”

—Søren Kierkegaard

“I am not like other people.
I am burning in hell.

The hell of myself.”

—Charles Bukowski 

“I envy you. Every moment
You can leave me.

I cannot
leave myself.”—Anna Swirszczynska