Big F**king Mood: A New Narrative

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I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. Tons of it. This past week has been...very hard for me. I haven't been doing an excessive amount of crying or screaming. I haven't been any more suicidal than usual. I've just been tired. Sad. Drained.

Are you every acutely aware of your own existence? Like you always know you're alive and breathing and moving; that you have emotions and thoughts and interests. That you're human. But do you ever just...think about it? Does it ever hit you that you're a person that feels and breathes? I do sometimes and its actually really kind of horrible, being so aware of the fact that you're alive. That there is blood traveling through your veins and that your eyes are reading this and understanding it. That right now, as you read these words I've ripped from my chest, there is a voice inside your head saying everything I'm saying.

Is it your voice or is it someone else's? Is it what you'd imagine me to sound like? If you know me, are you actually reading it in my voice? Or have you never heard me speak when I'm like this, so that voice sounds like me but not really?

I'm looking around, right now, in my room. Staring at the books stacked on the shelf in my closet and on my desk. My clothes hanging up, my shoes against the wall; some lined up and some haphazardly thrown in that general direction. I'm looking at my posters, my pictures, my bedsheets. I'm looking at the pajamas I'm lounging around in. I'm trying to figure out what all of this means. If some expert on behavior or psychology were to walk in here, what would they say? Is it possible for me to aptly describe myself from the things in here, or is all of it just the top layer of who I am, thus making anyone incapable of actually knowing what I'm like? Does that make my room a lie?

No. I love Star Wars. I love comics. I love books. I love writing. I love art. I like me clothes, I am cluttered but in a neat way.

This room is definitely me. Just maybe not all of me.

You'd have to open the dresser to see all of the half full notebooks, with stuff just like this inside them, and all the fritzed-out pairs of headphones. You'd have to read the books to really understand and to piece together which parts from which characters makes up my personality.

Maybe that's what made this week so difficult. I haven't been myself at all. All the things I've loved just...haven't been doing it for me anymore. I really wish it wasn't like that.

I don't know how else to deal with the stuff in my head.

- a bedroom