Exist

When I pressed my hands against the panes drenched with sunlight, I felt cold clasp my hand in a familiar embrace.
And I thought:

I have very faint memories of before. The only existence I know now is the one I was given.
An echo of what used to be.

Now, it's hard to exist when the world is giving me a manual of perfection.

But,
I dare to live, to be vibrant, to shine with all my heart and with all my might.
And when I die, as I inevitably will, I shall shatter into diamonds.
And people will see that it was what I was made of.


"We were both alone, both existing as the absence of something else."
- Tahereh Mafi, Shatter Me

If I actually said this

Ellen told me that we have clashes in opinions over certain topics and controversial issues.

"I'm not being pissy, I'm just stating fact," she over explained. Her inner voice said, "Maybe we should work on that so you can officially be in my group."

"Isn't it natural?" I asked. "But you know, I don't fight, argue, discuss, and defend issues with you that I don't give two cents about. I don't need to prove anything to you, much less argue about something pointless, because frankly, I don't care. If it isn't in my star system, then I obviously don't think about it. And the really cool thing is, is that I don't care about your opinion. And if push comes to shove, I won't care about you."

I wonder what her face would have looked like if I actually said this.

If

Tell me something.

I don't need a better thing

I'd settle for less

It's another thing for me

I just have to wander through this world

Alone.

I asked a friend to just talk.
Tell me something, I said.
Tell me anything, please. Can you do this for me? I asked

Of course, he said.  

I didn't tell him what was truly going through my mind:
PLEASE. CONNECT WITH ME. 
I need some sort of sign that I am not alone, that I deserve to breathe, to laugh, to cry.
I need someone to hug me and just exist along my side.

Keep on counting

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10. 
Again.
1... 2... 3... 4... 5...

My survival depends on those steady, repetitive digits. Without them, I fail to keep a calm face. Without them, I fail to be indifferent.
It's hard to describe the present, because whatever what was written before was the past.
There's a lot of mindlessness, small intervals of thoughtless fun, and silent streams of tears that don't matter.

Whenever a chance comes, I dive into whatever comfort I can find in the arms of carefree friends, who really aren't my friends, who don't know what I'm feeling, who don't know what I need, who don't know me.


So I keep on counting until it's an automatic jerk reaction to any type of confrontation.

I'm just past blaming everyone or everything.

I just want to burn, and I want to count while in flames.