I am not a metaphor.
I’m messy hair and not-real pants. I’m weak philosophical arguments and excitement over meaningless things. I’m self-doubt, self-deprecation, and smudged eyeliner. I’m brokenness and I’m impatience and I’m emptiness and I’m insecurity. I’m the IBS that follows my anxiety and I’m the anemia that keeps me perpetually tired. I’m the paintings that I hide and the sarcasm in my jokes. I’m the books that I read and the things that I believe and the people that I love.
When you look at me, you don’t see me, do you? Because to you, there’s only idealization and depreciation. You’re asphyxiating me with your binary systems. I can’t fix you and I can’t break you and it’s so exhausting trying to convince you otherwise.
I am not a muse or a promise or an Answer.
Because I am not an idea. I am a person.
(Isn’t it funny how it’s seven years later and nothing has changed?)
Tach wants to start a weekly writing project (his: thank you notes, mine: letters) and I know that I absolutely don’t have the time (thank you, life), but doesn’t that seem like such a wonderful idea?
I think I’m going to do it anyway because fuck it.
(But I’m also in the middle of school and studying and MCAT and planning my future and fetal alcohol syndrome research and work and service learning credit and organizations and wanting to transition my study in light + shadows to watercolors.)
(I’m 20, goddammit, and I’m already running out of time.)
Fuck all of it.