i write the words when i need them the most, even though i should write them when i need them the least, so that my paintings will become better, so my food will improve, so everything. it would be better, i would be better if i wrote when i didn’t need the words. but i can’t bring myself to do–at least not yet–and so i write when i need the words, when they come too fast for me to breathe.

i love the people who need my love the most. not the people who need it the least, who are already drowning in love. i see people who are alone, whose hearts are breaking and they are the ones that i want to save. i have always felt that way–a wrong way maybe, because saving people isn’t always good for me but it is something that i thought i gave up years ago, and yet here it is. too much of life–perhaps all of it–is a popularity contest. here i am, sitting in a suite, that is supposed to be filled with mature women, ready to go out into the world and change it for the better and yet, here i sit, scared of almost everything because the people i am surrounded by…well i lack faith in them. not all of them, of course, but many of them. i lack faith in whether or not they will be able to make the right decisions, the decisions that won’t just help themselves but will also better this world, that when the moment comes, they will pick the choice that isn’t the easiest. i lack so much faith in them because their world view is so narrow, because they have not been educated in the same way i have. well, that makes me selfish. i have been blessed with opportunities that are extremely rare. i can not blame or look down on people just because they do not live in the same world as i do, because my world is so much larger, so different. but here’s the thing. i can look down on them by the choices they make. the fact that they only see their side, their side, their side. why did you leave her name out? what are you snapping at me about? why do you always have to be right? why must you swallow your emotions? here’s the thing: to so many people this is a game. life is a game. but i’m tired of playing and i can’t get out. so i start to drown. i take steps back, so many i just might fall.

help, help, help. let me out. get me out. this all seems fake. when will it seem real?


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