pools

These things shouldn’t matter. You step out of your body, take a look around, and almost feel the urge to laugh. What are you so upset about? Why are you crying, why is it so hard for you to be happy? It doesn’t have to be this hard, you want to say to yourself. You’re making it worse than it really is. You don’t laugh, though. Because it’s real, and it’s happening to you. It’s not so funny. Just a little heartbreaking. Take a look in your closet. Look at all the shit you have. Read the brand names out loud: Marc Jacobs, Juicy Couture. It sickens you, you sicken yourself.
She has pretty much the exact same genetic structure as you do. Why is there such a vast, dramatic difference between the two of you? Why isn’t she severely clinically depressed, why isn’t she socially avoidant, why isn’t she addicted to Xanax? Who chose you? And why? There must have been some sort of reason, some intention, some secret purpose in giving you this sickness, in giving you this car crash heart.
You grow sick of analyzing everything, in searching for underlying meanings in the everyday and mundane. Not every thing is worth it.
You’re so nervous about going back in August. Just thinking about it causes an actual physical pang in your chest.
Cannons are firing through your system, battleships and grenades are exploding in your wreck of a heart, in your goddamned heart. Through it all, you recognize that there is something good in the sorrow. You have a gift; you have a gift for love. To be affected so much by so little, there is beauty in it. There is pain and loneliness but you’re ALIVE and it’s BEAUTIFUL, even if you can’t remember it sometimes. Take some pride in your catastrophic hurricane of emotion. There is something significant in it, I promise you, it has significance. There is a reason for this.