21st March, 2024
i wanna leave here. it's draining, it's deadly.
~
my hands are cold and aching. i wish i could be writing for a couple of hours every day, like years ago, but it's implausible any more.
i want to finish all i've started. i am not sure why my brain and my heart are still, to this day, spewing out ideas, all of which beg to be written out, explored, caressed into existence.
i want to be away from all the toxic air here. i want to be where there's silence, and lack.
my fingers hurt so much. i can barely lift my coffee cup in the morning. i wish i could be scared by this. i am getting used to the thought that my body can barely feel physical pain any more. i am rather in hell, where the mental anguish is thousandfold worse.
i am astonished to find out i am afraid of endings. books that were meant to be one-shots turn out to become monstrous books of 100 000 words. books that no one reads, because come on. most books out there are roughly 20K.
i write and i write, and my bones hurt all night long.
i wish my heart would stop hurting, all night long.
~
i wanna leave here. it's toxic. i'm dying.
