“Maybe I’m crazy. Probably.” 

(Looping the song “Crazy” on my iPod Touch as I am on the way home after experiencing Indulgence at 72-13.) 

When was the last time I actually went out of the house on my own, caught a show and took my own time to find my way back home? 

Taking photographs of the scenery that inspires me. Breathing quietly and taking steps my legs can cope with. Smiling when I want to and crying when I feel like it. Wearing an old tie-dyed shirt with shorts and sandals without someone saying that I look fat or ugly or not good enough. 

“Too old to be wearing that shit. Can you dress decently?” 


Since growing up is out of my control, does that remove my choices to do what I want to make me feel better about this horrifyingly sped up process? 

That’s something I am still negotiating. 

Almost a couple of hours ago, I forgot what it is like to just go to a place of comfort, sit by the window and people watch, sketch, write silly poems meant only for me and drink iced milo dinosaur. 

I used to think that’s joy. Now, that might seem like a waste of time. Pity, no? 

Thinking about this now, when was the last time I did that anyway? Maybe back in 2013. Or maybe an obscure day in 2014 that I conveniently forgot about out of guilt. 

It is indeed funny how I write in my schedule and a diary faithfully every night only to want to lie to myself about what kind of days, months and years I have been living. 

Have you ever wondered if the days you spend are really true to what you want or are just elaborate schemes so you will look back at them to be able to think of yourself a certain way? 

The never ending question of reinvention and fabrication. How pretentiously poetic. An unnecessary burden. 

Why do I ask so many questions and seek no answers? 

“Stop asking why. It is irritating. These are not questions you should be bothering yourself with.” 

Living the nomadic life in my pursuit of truth, because having an anchor, a flag and a rooted heart scares me to no end. 

Risk of suffocation or joy of security? 

Be quiet. Do not answer. It is a rhetorical question, because I will never make myself choose. 

How could I? 

I am too afraid of making the wrong move, and after all, our skin cells die and get a second life every seven years. 

How am I to make a decision for the future girl that might feel different in new skin in a couple of months to come? 

“You are no longer a girl. You are a woman. Almost a grown adult. Youth does not stay forever.” 

Take my hand? Come into bed? Hold me? Sing me a lullaby and calm my mind. Lie. Look in my eyes and convince me this is a dream and I have no more questions to ask. 

And let me sleep in your arms. 

And pretend I am just an extension of another being more real, more safe and more wise. 


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