why even

 some days are just

i’m not sure

all those clichés from movies about insane people

smoking cigarettes while sitting on the cold floor of the balcony leaning on the wall staring into the light-polluted violet sky

and all the city windows, most dark

the desire to smash the mirror with one’s fist, suppressed only just

80’s pop melancholy and a deep longing to just disintegrate into thin air

and wishing to grab a cute willing and submissive stranger by the wrist and lead them into the void, get lost in the smell of tobacco, leather and desperate kisses

all the sweaty and bloody urges to destroy, all the attempts to make oneself feel alive

looking for something uncertain and undefined

are so

…

…

it’s basically been the same every time i leave myself to my thoughts and longings since long long ago

life changes but the same ideas come back to me

it’s one of those days i don’t even want to unfuck myself

i just let the glittery waves of the ocean wash over me

i meditate

and create (sometimes)

and feel like the hottest bag of slimy stinky rotten shit

my entire novel is based on this freudian shitfest – all the characters that i am and characters i want to be and characters i want to meet

yes, the book i haven’t touched in months although it’s more real than myself

i swear to god i suck at putting ideas together or even comprehending whatever the hell all of this on my mind is

who even cares honestly

…

i love my playlist, right now more than ever

but i envy those people so much that they put emotions into music – i’m so incapable of doing any of that it’s actually really rheeeee diculous