Journal # ...

Autoportrait

I hate talking about myself and saying "I this", or "I that". 

I hate being the center of attention but I loathe being forgotten. 

I've been told that I crave oppression. 

I long for death. 

I long for something more. 

Something other than this. 

I am not here for myself. 

I am tired of people owning me. 

I wish I was free. 

I want to share my aches with others. 

I hope that there is someone out there like me but I don't want them to be the same. 

I do not wish this on anyone. 

I love pain. 

I function through it. 

It is my fuel. 

I challenge others but I do not challenge myself. 

I cannot let go and I cannot move on. 

I am in an endless loop of subway tunnels. 

I write to understand. 

There is a never-ending, ongoing, timeless, amount of thoughts going through my head and even more feelings going through my heart at once. 

Assuming I have a heart. 

I care too much what others think but I do not care what they think of me. 

I hope for nothing but happiness for people but am tired of searching for happiness. 

She keeps running from me. 

It is a relay race, but I am the only one running. 

J'ai volé vers l'espace. 

I have my own opinions and am not afraid to voice them but I am constantly under scrutiny for them. 

I live in America, but America does not live in me. 

Christopher Reeve said that feeling pain is better than nothing at all and I think I have become overly obsessed with that belief because I find myself feeling nothing too often and substituting the feeling with things that society does not condone. 

Perhaps the problem is with society and not me. 

After all, society deems whatever they feel like based on how they are feeling in a given moment.

But is that not how I live my life too? 

Society says that suicide is not okay. 

Drugs are bad. 

Money is power. 

Life is about living. 

You are to never take anything for granted, live as though you were to die tomorrow. 

I wish that were true. 

I've used up my free trial and am ready to delete my account. 

I am not here for myself. 

We live for those around us. 

Those we choose to surround ourselves with and those we are assigned to. 

I am sick of being owned. 

As a kid, I did not know darkness. 

I thought it was cold, that it would never come close to home, that I was too white, and safe. 

But as I've grown, the darkness has spread, and she continues creeping closer, consuming. 

I've become well acquainted with her and she is warm. 

She should not be feared, she should be welcomed and accepted even if she is not understood. 

Black is beautiful.